


Someone to watch me die

by meerlicht



Series: Where’d all the time go? [1]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone (Who Hasn't Died Yet) Lives/Nobody Else Dies, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Boil & Waxer are best friends, Brotherly Bonding, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, M/M, Platonic Relationships, Quote: The Force works in mysterious ways, That's Not How The Force Works (Star Wars), Time Travel Fix-It, Waxer has no idea what’s happening and it shows, Waxer is an unreliable narrator, Waxer surviving somehow changes everything, Waxer-centric, except some nameless clones. i'm sorry, force-sensitive Waxer (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29540751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meerlicht/pseuds/meerlicht
Summary: He’s fading, can’t hold onto himself longer. Rex’s firm grip on his shoulder is the only thing keeping him here, a steady reminder that someone forgives him, that he isn’t completely alone.Still. He wishes Boil was here. He wishes he could’ve seen Numa again before he had to go. He didn’t think it would be so soon.Waxer has never cried before, not once. It wasn’t him. He was always trying to be somewhat optimistic, and even when they lost all of their other batchmates in an accident back on Kamino he had hugged Boil close and let him cry into his neck.He’s not sure if the single tear that escapes him counts as crying, but it’s the closest he’ll ever get.–Waxer meets the ground. Hard.Or: Waxer dies on Umbara and wakes up back on the negotiator, three days before his death.
Relationships: Boil & Waxer (Star Wars), CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Series: Where’d all the time go? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2204880
Comments: 54
Kudos: 208





	1. Forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

> There's not enough Waxer content, so I decided I'd just do it myself. This started out as an angsty one-shot of Waxers death, but then I cried and decided to fix this.  
> I’m also not a native english speaker, so please be gentle If I made any mistakes language-wise <3  
> The translations for the mando'a used here are in the end-notes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rex isn’t crying. There are no tears on his face; Still, his eyes–  
> Waxer sees his reflection in them. He looks away.

_He killed them._

Waxer stares down at his hands. His shaking, bloody hands, the ones he used to press the trigger on his blaster, the ones that killed at least ten of his brothers, if not more. He heard them die, heard them cry out in pain, and still he didn’t see. How did he not notice something was wrong? How did he not know? 

Waxer shivers, lets out a ragged breath. He’s suffocating. He can’t get his breathing under control (breathe in, breathe out–normally it helps, but right now he can’t even focus on the words) and he’s shaking with the knowledge that he’s a murderer, that he _killed_ his vode, and–Boil is so far away. He’s on the other side of the battlefield with Kenobi, and when Waxer got General Krells holo he didn’t even so much as think about calling his _vod_ to tell him where he and his men were going. He’d return soon enough, he thought.

The other reason why Waxer can’t breathe is that there’s a hole in his stomach. He’s been lying here for–he can’t say how long, but he got shot somewhere in the beginning of the battle, and had managed to stay fully conscious long enough to hear Captain Rex yell, “ _We’re all clones! We’re shooting at our own men!”_ At that point Waxer had already known. 

He can’t help but feel a rush of _relief._ It is good that he dies here. 

Waxer loves living, he does. He loves existing in the barracks, loves playing sabacc with his brothers, loves annoying Boil just because he can, but he could never live with this. He knows it would eat him alive. It’s a good thing he won’t have to.

From where he is slumped against a tree he sees a trooper lying across from him. Blue stripes. Torrent company. His helmet lies on his side, it fell off when–

When he killed one of his brothers. 

Waxer had already been injured when the trooper appeared out of nowhere. Waxer shot him, and now he can’t look away from what he’s done–oh maker, what has he done?

He’s been sitting across from the dead trooper the entire rest of the battle. He can’t tear his eyes away, doesn’t feel like he is allowed to.

Waxer's vision is blurry, and his thoughts go back to Boil, and then–Numa. He gasps in pain, not sure if it’s from the wound or from the fact that he broke his promise. _I’m sorry,_ he thinks, and Waxer prays to whatever is out there that she and Boil will forgive him.

One of his troopers leans over him, whispers words that Waxer is too tired to make out. 

Most clones don’t really believe in the force. Sure, they work with the Jedi, and they see what they can do with it, but they don’t understand, don’t actually believe everything their Generals are telling them. Waxer, on the other hand, found comfort in believing in it. Obviously he didn’t tell his vode, they would’ve laughed at him, clapped him on the back and said, “of course you believe in force- _osik,_ Waxer.” But the things Kenobi told him about the force, they were–nice. They made him feel less afraid.

Waxer has never been this afraid. He grits his teeth, closes his eyes shut and somewhere he hears his name being called. He can’t make out the words, and for some reason he still hopes it’s Boil calling him. It would be nice, Waxer thinks, to die in his best friends arms. It’d be nice to be held while he dies. He would _prefer_ it being Boil, because he’s his best friend, and he trusts him more than he trusts anyone else. 

When he sees the Captain he’s almost disappointed. Not _disappointed,_ because Rex is still a brother and a friend, but something close to it. 

“Waxer,” Rex says, and that’s when he really knows he won’t make it out of here. Rex is talking to him like he’s talking to someone dying, all soft and gentle. He stops in front of Waxer, and then he leans down and grasps the sides of his bucket, carefully pulling it off. He puts it aside and places a hand on Waxer's shoulder, and it’s not quite the same as being held–but, it will do. It’s better than what most of his brothers got. It’s definitely better than what the brothers he shot got. 

“Tell me who gave you the orders to attack us,” Rex asks him. 

Waxer tries to stop his vision from slipping away, and gasps when he shifts and the pain in his stomach explodes again. “It–“ he starts, takes a breath as deep as he can even if it makes his lungs feel as if they’re going to collapse. Then he tries again. “It was general Krell.” 

It burns. Waxer coughs, his lungs protesting against the breath he just took, and he’s in so much pain that he almost wishes the ever growing dark would just claim him right away. 

He forces himself to lift his head, looks Rex in the eyes. 

Rex isn’t crying. There are no tears on his face; Still, his eyes–

Waxer sees his reflection in them. He looks away. “He sent us to these coordinates to stop the enemy. We thought they were wearing our armor, but It was–“ 

(He’s fading, can’t hold onto himself longer. Rex’s firm grip on his shoulder is the only thing keeping him here, a steady reminder that someone forgives him, that he isn’t completely alone. 

Still. He wishes Boil was here. He wishes he could’ve seen Numa again before he had to go. He didn’t think it would be so soon. 

Waxer has never cried before, not once. It wasn’t him. He was always trying to be somewhat optimistic, and even when they lost all of their other batchmates in an accident back on Kamino he had hugged Boil close and let him cry into his neck. 

He’s not sure if the single tear that escapes him counts as crying, but it’s the closest he’ll ever get.)

“–you,” he sighs, and his head rolls onto his neck as he lets himself slip away. 

Waxer is falling, and falling, and–and there’s no pain, there’s no hurt, but there’s _something_ there. It’s similar to the feeling of being in space, as if he’s more floating than falling. It is something that feels warm and safe and he wants to hold onto that feeling forever. It brushes over him, and somehow it feels like a hug. 

Waxer reaches out, grasps whatever it is. It drips through his fingers, and somehow he doesn’t feel it in that he feels the touch, but in that he feels it deep inside of him. 

Waxer looks around. 

There’s nothing here, nothing to hold onto, and when he looks down at where his hands would be he sees nothing. He’s _not_ nothing–he’s _something_ , or maybe he’s _part_ of something. Even if he can’t feel his body, he’s still here. 

_Waxer_ , someone says, or something says; And it’s not really spoken, either, it’s as if Waxer hears it in his head–

He doesn’t have a head, though. His body isn’t here. 

_You’re not supposed to be here yet, brother,_ the voice says. Waxer pulls himself closer to it. _Who are you,_ he says. There’s no answer. _I’m dead,_ Waxer says. _So is this the afterlife?_

 _No,_ the voice says. _It’s not. When your time really has come we’ll be here to take you with us, but–It’s not your time yet._

 _What?_ Waxer says. _I died._

 _The force has different plans for you,_ the voice says, and Waxer is still falling, and falling, and falling—

And then he meets the ground. Hard. 

All air leaves his lungs, and he yelps in pain, his eyes squeezed shut. He breathes in. Breathes out. 

Opens his eyes, and stares at the ceiling. 

What?

Waxer blinks, closes his eyes again, and tries to organize his thoughts. His back throbs in pain. 

Just to be sure, he lifts his hand and pinches his nose. He misses the painless abyss already. 

_Did he survive?_

Waxer breathes in. Breathes out. He can do this. 

He opens his eyes again, and the first thing he’s sure of is that he’s not in medbay, which, weird. He had been shot in the stomach. He had bled out. That would mean at _least_ a month in bacta, and yet, he was in his blacks in the regular–

“Waxer?” comes a voice from next to him. 

Waxer jerks his head and stares right into a face just like his, worried eyes watching him. He stares right back. 

Boil pushes himself off his bunk, leans over where Waxer lies on the floor, and frowns. “Are you okay? Did you _fall_ _out_ of your bunk?”

Considering Waxer doesn’t cry he sure feels a lot like bawling his eyes out right then and there. He doesn’t, though. “Boil,” he whispers, tries to get up and stops, groaning as his back protests. 

“ _Udesii,_ Vod,” Boil says, and then he grasps one of Waxers hands to pull him up. 

Waxer lets him. At least until they’re standing; As soon as there’s ground beneath his feet Waxer slings his arms around Boil and pulls him into a tight hug. Boil yelps, but Waxer doesn’t let go. 

“Boil,” he repeats, because he’s not sure what else to say. What else can he say? He thought he was dead. Maybe Boil had thought he was dead– _The brothers I’ve killed are definitely dead,_ Waxer thinks. Recoils. The reality of the situation starts to sink in, and the memory of the things he’s done is back, the feeling of his own blood on his hands, the feeling of _their_ blood on his hands. 

Shit. 

He’s shaking again. 

This isn’t right. This isn’t _fair._ Why does _he_ get to live and they don’t? He’s okay with dying. Maker, he’s always known that clones don’t live long, happy lifes. Dying on the battlefield, a brother holding him as he went–that’s one of the better ways to go. Better than being cut in half or eaten or shot by your own brother. 

How could they expect him to _live with this?_

“Hey, stop that,” Boil says, and somehow Waxer can almost feel his confusion and worry. Worry he got, because for all his pretending not to care Boil was very much protective of his close ones. Especially if it’s Waxer. Waxer knows that; It has been just them for such a long time that of course they still fall back into that old pattern, of them taking care of each other. 

There was no one else back on Kamino. During a training session when they were seven a bot had malfunctioned and initiated self-destruct while their batchmates were still too close to it. Twenty-seven and Stars had died before help even arrived. Boil and Waxer watched them pass. 

But–Singer had been the worst one, because he _survived_ the explosion. “I can’t feel my legs,” he told Waxer while they were waiting. “I can’t move. I'm as good as dead.”

“I’m not letting you die,” Boil had grit out. “I won’t let another one die.”

The longnecks took Singer away, and they didn’t see him again. That’s when Boil broke. Waxer feels a pang of guilt–he must’ve scared his brother so much. Boil doesn’t deserve losing him, too.   
  
Waxer’s neck prickles.

But–why was Boil confused? Why would he be? Wouldn’t it be rather obvious that Waxer isn’t himself after this?

Boil is hugging him back now, and Waxer buries his face in his brother's neck and breathes. 

Breathes in, breathes out. 

The other brothers in the barracks are still asleep, only one of the shinies glares at them for a second before he closes his eyes again. Brothers comforting each other after bad dreams wasn’t uncommon. And of course they would assume that’s what this is. 

“Bad dream?” Boil asks, and despite himself Waxer chuckles. He wishes it was just a dream. “I killed them,” he answers instead, and his voice is as empty as he feels. Has Boil forgiven him? How could he? Waxer shivers. “I’m so sorry.”

Boil grasps the back of his head. “It was just a dream, vod. You didn’t kill anyone just now. Do you want to stay in my bunk or–“

“I’m not talking about a dream, Boil, I’m talking about _Umbara._ I–You know, I thought I’d die. I was so sure of it.” 

Boil almost peels Waxer off of him, holds him at arm length and looks at him as if he’s crazy. “Umbara? Why did you dream about Umbara? We’re only arriving there tomorrow.”

Waxer frowns, frustrated. “No, you’re not–wait, what did you say?”

“Why did you dream about Umbara?”

“No, the–the other part?”

“That we’re arriving tomorrow?” Boil asks, his brows furrowed. “We’ve known this for a while, Waxer. This is the first time we’ll be leading platoons, you better not have forgotten.”

That doesn’t make any sense. That’s impossible. 

Waxer swallows. “We haven’t been to Umbara yet?”

“No, we haven’t. It’s supposed to be unsettling, I’m not too excited for it.”

Waxer is dreaming. He must be. He knows that he was on Umbara, knows he killed his brothers, just like he knows that Numas picture is on his helmet and that the Commander is head over heels for the General. 

“C’mon, let’s go back to sleep, vod.” Boil nudges him and crawls back into his bunk, and after a moment of hesitation Waxer joins him instead of climbing up to his own. He’s already managed to fall down _despite the reiling_ once, and he really doesn’t want to fall again. 

It feels a bit like back when they were cadets; After everyone else was gone Boil and Waxer often shared their sleeping tubes, neither wanting to spend the night alone. Now that they’re troopers it happens less. 

Waxer lies down next to his brother, and again it’s like he can feel the worry coming off him in waves. “Actually sleep now,” Boil grumbles and softly hits his arm. 

Waxer can’t help it. A slight grin creeps onto his face and he punches back, muttering a quiet, “Shut up.”

He’ll worry about all of this tomorrow.

When Waxer wakes in the morning he has almost convinced himself that Umbara had been nothing but a bad dream. That is the only logical explanation, because Boil insists they have never been to Umbara before and Boil wouldn’t lie to him. _This_ isn’t a dream, either. 

The one thing that ruins his perfect illusion is that everything is happening exactly the way it has happened in his “dreams.” The men talk to Waxer and say the same things. General Kenobi's battle-plan is the same. Cody’s blush when the general makes an off-hand comment about how he trusts him with his life is the same. (Cody shouting “ _Ne’johaa!”_ at him when he catches him snickering is the same, too.)

 _Everythings the same_.

And there’s another thing. Everything is _more_. That’s the thing that makes the least sense to Waxer, because it’s as if he can feel people’s emotions when he’s close to them, can feel a brother's anger from across the hall, feel Cody's fondness when he compliments the men’s skills. And it isn’t just his brothers, either; It is everyone, and it is confusing, and Waxer doesn’t like it. 

He wishes there was an off-button for this, whatever it might be. 

Waxer contemplates saying something. Maybe asking the General for help. But he doesn’t even know what’s going on himself, and the General already has lots of things on his mind; He doesn’t need to worry about whatever tricks Waxer's mind is playing on him. 

He has to find out if it’s _actually_ the same first. If it is, he could change it, keep his brothers from killing each other. 

Waxer takes a moment to look over the troops; The youngest Troopers are still shinys, fresh from Kamino. Waxer doesn’t want to know how many of them won’t make it out. They’re already sending the men out too early–these ones are _barely_ nine. They should’ve been cadets for at least another year. 

When they’re getting in the shuttle, Boil grabs his arm and holds him back. “Be careful out there, vod,” he says. 

Waxer remembers how this conversation went the first time. He’d said, “I can take care of myself, you know that.”

Boil had looked at him. “I know, but If you _do_ need my help I won’t be there.”

“It’ll be fine, stop worrying so much,” Waxer had said and then they were off. 

Now? Waxer knew better. “I’ll try. You too, vod,” he says and pats his brother on his back. 

The campaign starts just as bloody as it did last time, and Waxer decides to go exactly with what he did then (in his dream?). He keeps checking for his fellow troopers, and watches as one of his men goes down next to him, yelling in pain. 

Waxer is bred for war. He knows what he’s doing, because of course he does, and gets most of his men over to the other side, taking down a fair amount of umbarans himself. For all that Waxer would like to be kind and prides himself in being good with people, he’s still a soldier; he’s a lieutenant now. The Commander and the general are in the front, taking out most of the enemies ( _just like last time,_ he thinks.)

Waxer waits. He isn’t sure what he’s waiting _for_ ; he does anyway. Boil is beside him most of the time, has his back, as he always does. 

Everything goes fine. Then, news spread that General Skywalker has returned to Coruscant, and that General Krell will be taking his place–Waxer isn’t an angry man, but it takes all his self-control _not_ to run to General Kenobi and beg him to send Krell away. What would he even say? And why would he believe him?

Days pass. The battle goes on forever. The Commander and the General keep to themselves, and Waxer only goes to meet up with them a few times, reporting on progress. 

“Sir,” Waxer greets his General and starts talking about the details of the last battle. 

“Thank you, Waxer,” General Kenobi says when he’s finished, and he stares at him for a moment too long. Furrows his eyebrows. He’s confused, Waxer can tell, but he can’t tell _why._ He hadn’t done anything wrong, had he?

“Everything alright, Sir?”

Kenobi seems startled, as if Waxer has thrown him out of his thoughts. “Yes, yes,” he says, stroking his beard. “And–what about you, Waxer? Are you alright?”

Waxer shifts at the question. “As alright as one can be in battle, Sir,” he answers, which isn’t exactly a lie. It’s just not the truth either. 

Kenobi nods, looking thoughtful. “Thank you, Waxer. You’re dismissed.” Waxer salutes and gets back to work. 

The battles don’t go well, but overall they’re at least _successful._ They treat the wounded, and then the night passes, and it’s the day of Waxer's death. 

Waxer’s sure now. This many coincidences are unlikely to happen, and the “dream” had felt too real for it to be just that. He was going to be okay, but now he had to fight for it, first. He could change this. He could save their lives.

Boils and Waxers Platoon were separated, like before; part of the plan. Waxer feels a ping of guilt as he watches Boil leave with his men. He still isn’t sure if his _own_ plan will work, and he should’ve said a proper goodbye. But if he is too obvious, Boil will get suspicious, and then who knows what’ll happen.

And just like Waxer had thought, shortly after he has said goodbye to his friend, he gets the holo.  
“The Umbarans are planning an attack. Your platoon needs to eliminate them immediately or all our efforts will be wasted. I’m sending you the coordinates. And, lieutenant, they’ll be wearing the armor from captured clones.” 

Waxer grits his teeth. Krell’s a _demagolka_ , and every second he looks at him he feels more sick. Still, he nods, keeping his voice monotone. “Sir, yes, sir!” 

He closes the holo and takes a deep breath. Breathe in. Breathe out.

General Kenobi had shown him how to control his breathing when he was panicking before his real first battle, a long time ago now. Waxer had been a shiny then, fresh from Kamino, and he had been so _afraid_ (all while he knew that clones weren’t supposed to be). 

Waxer tries to recall when the 501st started to attack. He doesn’t want to lose any of _his_ men, either, so how–

He recalls how the Captain had yelled at everyone to take off their buckets, and how as soon as they saw each other's faces they all stopped shooting at their brothers. That’s what they had to do.

“Sir,” Crys says behind him. “Are you alright? You’ve been standing there for a while.”

Waxer turns around, and then, looking over his brothers, he asks, “Do you trust me, vode?”

He can’t see their expressions behind the buckets, but he can _feel_ their confusion. “Of course we do, Sir,” a shiny without a proper name yet says determinedly.

“Good,” Waxer says. “Take off your buckets. Now.”

Understandably, there’s protest. 

“But–Sir! Our heads will be unprotected!”

“We’ll be an easy target!”

“Sir, with all due respect, this is a _horrible_ idea.”

Waxer lifts a hand. “You just said you trust me. I am asking you all to _trust me_. I know it sounds like I’m crazy, but I promise that I have a plan,” Waxer says, trying his best not to sound too desperate. He isn’t very good at it. He had been yesterday, when all he had to worry about was Umbarans and not his own brothers. 

There’s whispers, and after a long moment the first troopers reach for their buckets and put them off, most of them frowning. 

Waxer breathes out. He has no reason to–There’s nothing won yet. But this is the baseline. This is a start. 

“Sir,” Crys says. “We trust you, but–why this?”

“They have to see that we’re clones,” Waxer explains. “That’s all I can tell you. Thank you for your trust.” 

Crys looks fairly unimpressed, but nods. “We’re with you, Sir,” he says, salutes and gets back in line. Waxer looks into the darkness of Umbara and takes a deep breath. This is it, then. All or nothing. 

It’s quiet on Umbara, for the first time ever since they arrived. Waxer hates the quiet. In the places that most feel like home there is always noises, always chattering, yelling, laughing everywhere. He feels safest when he’s around his brothers. Of course, sometimes quiet can be nice. Like when General Kenobi invited Waxer to meditate with him, and Waxer doesn’t think he had been exceptional at it, but not bad, either. After he joined him for the fifth time Kenobi had asked Waxer if he could please convince Cody to try it, too; He could tell his Commander was stressed and this would help. Waxer had snorted and answered that “ _he’d do anything for you if you only asked, sir.”_ Kenobi had flushed when Waxer went out the door.

Cody beat him up at training the next day, but it was worth it. 

This, though? This is not a nice quiet, and Waxer thinks of the brothers that are looking for them right now, and he tries to remember how the battle happened last time. 

They shot first. The 501st threw grenades at them. They fought back. The events are a blur, probably because Waxer got caught by a blaster shot right at the beginning and was brought to safety by a shiny. The shiny got shot in the head. 

Waxer hopes he’s doing the right thing. If everything before had just been the universe playing a trick on him and he is now leading his paldron into a suicide battle with actual Umbarans he would never forgive himself. 

He feels them before he sees them. Waxer closes his eyes, concentrates on the feeling and follows it, until there is–a steady calm. Determination. The 501st.

Ghost company had shot first. Now, Waxer holds them off, and has told them explicitly not to attack. 

“Sir, with all due respect,” another shiny hisses. “If we don’t attack now we’ll lose!”

“Just–wait,” Waxer tells him, and cringes at himself. Maker. He is bad at this.

This time it is Torrent company who shoots first, but Waxer already knows where the grenades will land and not a single trooper is near it. They panic anyway.

A shiny turns around and starts shooting into the dark where the others must be, and Waxer curses and flings himself at the kid. “Stop shooting!” he shouts, punches the blaster out of the shinies hands and jabs a finger at him, and the other men look at him in shock. They’re angry, especially the one he has pinned beneath him, and he can’t exactly blame them; He’d also be angry If he was fighting a battle and your superior would tell you just to not fight back.

Those aren't enemies, though. These are his brothers. 

“Waxer, what are you _doing,”_ Dirt, a trooper Waxer has known since he joined the 212th, shouts, dismissing the rank as he ducks from a blaster bolt. 

Now or never, Waxer thinks as he feels more than hears the 501st approaching. “ _Ke’sush_ ,” he shouts as loud as he can. The men already have their whole attention on him. 

“I want everyone to yell ‘ _We’re clones’,_ Can you do that?”

Crys looks as if he wants to punch him, and so do the other ones. “ _Me’ven?_ ” Runner asks in Mando’a, flabbergasted. The shiny under him _growls._

“You heard me,” Waxer yells, gets off the kid and ducks from where the 501st has started _firing–_ And this wasn’t working. The men look confused, unsure, a few like they want to shake him, and Waxer–

Waxer wouldn’t kill any of his brothers this time around. He just had to act fast. “ _Don’t_ attack them, and stay where you are,” he tells Crys, and before he can say anything else Waxer throws himself out of cover and with a _thump_ his blaster lands on the ground beneath him. Someone yells. 

Waxer lifts his hands, and he screams. “ _We’re clones!_ We’re all clones! We’re–”

Pain explodes in his lower stomach.  
He almost wants to laugh. Of course he’d get shot in the exact same place as before. Waxer cries out in pain, clasps his wound, and lifts his head anyway, stands as tall as he can. They have to see him. 

A brother is yelling something, and Waxer knows the trooper who shot him, a shiny, is _terrified,_ can feel his fear and guilt even with his bucket on, and he thinks, _I did it._

“We’re clones!”, Crys shouts behind him, and Waxer falls down, hits the dirt hard. “We’re all clones!”

“We’re clones too!”, someone from the 501st yells back, and from where he’s lying he sees buckets being dropped on the ground. “We’re also clones!” 

A warm feeling washes over him as the other troopers from the ghost company also join in, and everyone is shouting, but–there’s no blaster-shots, no grenades going off, just arguing and yelling. 

Someone grasps his shoulder. Waxer looks up, and a 501st trooper cowers down next to him. “Roll over,” he tells him, and that’s when Waxer notices the cross on his armor. He’s a medic. Waxer complies but hisses out in pain. The medic presses a bacta pack onto his wound, his eyes carefully seeming to check him over for additional injuries. “I’m Kix,” he says as he opens his med-kit next to him and fishes out a bandage. “For now I’ll just make sure you won’t bleed out. You have to go into bacta for at least a week after this is over, but first you need to survive, got it? _”_

Waxer nods, and grins a little. He likes this kid. 

There’s footsteps behind him, and then a hand settles on his shoulder. “Waxer,” Rex says.

Waxer, still, doesn’t cry, but he just might do it out of joy, because Rex’s voice is scruff and dark, not bothered to hide his anger. There’s no softness in it, just hurt and betrayal. That’s obviously not a good thing, but–to Waxer, it means that he’ll survive. If the Captain thinks so, it’s true–he’s seen enough dying men.  
“Tell me who gave you the order to attack us,” Rex asks, anger barely controlled.

“It was General Krell,” Waxer says. He finds it much easier to answer when he hasn’t been bleeding out for half the battle.  
 _This_ could barely be called a battle. Not a single trooper died. Only Waxer got injured. He’ll survive longer this time, and he _will_ keep his promise to Numa, and Boil won’t lose his last batchmate.  
“He sent us to these coordinates to stop the enemy. We thought they were wearing our armor, but It was you.”

Rex frowns, though it’s not specifically directed at him, and Waxer knows that. “I’m thankful you did, but how did you know we _weren’t_ just wearing the armor? And–one of your troopers told me that you ordered them to take off their helmets long before they knew we were clones. Why did you do that?”  
Shit. Waxer has thought about none of these, doesn’t know what to say. He’s been so busy trying to survive that he didn’t think of how to explain anything. He still doesn’t know what’s going on, how this can be; Waxer couldn’t explain this if he tried–thankfully he doesn’t have to say anything, because Kix punches Rex. Maybe a bit harder than necessary. Rex flinches, and then turns towards Kix, offended. Kix stares right back. 

“Waxer just got shot, Captain. As our medic I think It’s best if he doesn’t talk, and certainly if he isn’t interrogated on the spot.”

“I wasn’t interrogating him–”

“Sir. As your medic, I outrank you. Go bother his troops first, you can talk when he’s doing better.”  
Rex tries to fight Kix’s stare for another moment, and then he sighs. “Sorry for letting them shoot you, Waxer. _N’eperavu takisit_ ,” he says, and Waxer smiles at him. “I’ll live,” he says, and he hopes it's true. He wants to live so badly. 

From this point on, Waxer has no idea what to do, or what’s coming, for that matter.  
The 501st and the 212th exchange comms and then they decide to arrest Krell, no matter how highly treasonous it is, which Waxer agrees with; But he won’t be there with them. He tries to convince Kix that as the platoon leader and lieutenant he should be there, but Kix jabs a finger at his wound and–yeah, Waxer does see his point. They help him walk back to the base of the 501st and Kix goes to get some actual painkillers from his med supply. “You won’t be able to fight, anyway,” he says. “We’re leaving you here, only until that monster is locked away, and then we get you so you can punch him.” It’s a joke, because if Waxer punched a prisoner that would still be unacceptable coming from a clone and he’d probably be decommissioned. Still, it’s a nice thought. 

“Take good care of the men,” Waxer tells Rex before he enters the building with them. Rex nods sharply. “I’ll try.” _He’s scared,_ Waxer thinks. 

Now, Waxer has a bit more time to think about _this_ part of somehow being alive again. It’s a lot harder to concentrate when everyone around him is broadcasting their emotions to him. Waxer is good with emotions. This is too much, though, and it distracts him from his primary target; Keeping his brothers safe. 

Kix gives him the painkillers. Waxer takes them thankfully. Kix radiates smugness, and nudges him softly. “ _Gar shuk me kyrayc,”_ he says. 

Waxer nods. “ _K’oyacyi.”_

Waxer actually thinks everything might be going well. That is, until he hears the sound of glass shattering, and in the next moment General Krell is standing in front of the base. 

“Get him!” a 501st trooper yells, and everyone instantly points their blasters right at him. Waxer is _behind_ Krell and doesn’t think the _demagolka_ has noticed him at all. 

His brothers start shooting and cry out when Krell's lightsaber moves through them as if they’re _droids._ Krell moves through the clones without mercy, picks up an unmoving body and swings it at three others–Kix under them, Waxer notices. 

He has to _do_ something, he thinks, and at least the painkillers make it easy for him to ignore his wound for now as he takes one of the fallen mens blasters and heads after where Krell has run off to. Somewhere behind him he hears Rex shouting, but if he looks back now he’s going to lose him. 

Waxer follows quietly, and when Krell turns around he ducks, makes himself as small as possible. _Somehow_ Krell doesn’t see him, even if he probably should have–he’s a jedi after all, he should’ve been able to feel his presence. Waxer isn’t complaining, though. He walks when Krell walks, matches his step, stays in the shaddows. 

Suddenly, Krell stops, and Waxer feels his concentration, and more than that something like _disgust._ As if it’s his brothers who are disgusting and not himself. Waxer closes his eyes, and it’s as if something is _tugging_ at him. 

Breathes in, breathes out. 

He holds onto those feelings, wonders what Krell is planning, and _something_ inside him shifts, and then–

_Attack when they’re on the comms, make sure they hear it-need to focus on the captain, he's the only one with conc–what the–?_

Waxer rips his eyes open, ducks behind a tree, and gasps. 

Those hadn’t been his thoughts.Those were _Krells_. 

Krell growls from where he stands, and Waxer hears him turn, and then: “Guess this’ll be a bit harder, after all. Where are you hiding, coward?”

 _He knows I’m here,_ Waxer thinks, and freezes as his heart pounds in his throat. His comm flickers up, and it’s Rex, and he has to warn him but Krell is _right there–_

Waxer takes a deep breath. Lets it go again. Then he steps out from his cover, activates his comm and shouts, “Here I am, you _demagolka._ ”

Krell jerks his head towards him, readies his lightsabers, and then _stops_. Confusion washes over him, and Waxer holds his blaster close. If he can hold off Krell long enough the others will have more time to find him. 

“A clone,” Krell says, “Not a jedi. A _clone_ had the audacity to break into my head. And here I was thinking I’d get a real battle. It surprises me that clones can be force-sensitive, though.”

Waxers head spins. “We aren’t, but if you want we can discuss this all day. It’s not like I’m in a _HURRY_ to be anywhere,” he says and hopes that Rex gets the message. At least he’s quiet on the other side, seems to have gotten Waxer’s idea. 

“You certainly are force-sensitive, clone. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to do something like that. Such a shame I’ll have to kill you.” Krell cackles, and suddenly Waxers air is cut off, and his feet aren’t touching the ground anymore. He’s being choked. Krell is choking him. 

“I know you’re listening, Captain. Your clone wasn’t as subtle as he likes to think he is. As for you–you should’ve listened to the arc-trooper in the beginning. He was right. I was using you.”

“Didn’t–notice me–follow’n,” Waxer chokes out, because he’s not letting that sit on him. The phantom grip around his throat gets even tighter.

Waxer's mind is rushing, and–he can’t be force sensitive, because clones are zeros, as force-sensitive as a stone. But if he was, wouldn’t he be able to–?

Waxer decides to try his luck. ( _There is no luck–)_ He lifts his hand from his throat, imagines it curling around Krells throat, and _squeezes_. 

Krells eyes go wide, and then Waxer is lowered towards the ground as Krell gasps and uses the one hand he isn’t force-choking Waxer with to claw his throat. “You–!” he grits out, and Waxer smirks in triumph even as the hand around his throat gets _tighter,_ and in response he only squeezes his own _more_. “If–I die–you will–too,” he gasps. 

Krell bares his teeth, but before he can say anything else that Waxer fears will be the last thing he hears there’s a shout.

“Get him!”

The Generals eyes go wide as if he has forgotten about why he was out here in the first place, and from one moment to the next the pressure on Waxers throat is gone. 

Krell only needs a second to be back to his old self, especially now that Waxers not choking him back, but at least he’s _slower._ He still impales brother after brother, jumps back. Breaks ones spine. Picks another up and throws him far away as if he weighs nothing. 

Krell moves away from Waxer, and his comm goes off. Rex. “Troopers, listen up. Circle around. Lure him towards Tup.”

Waxer hopes they have a good plan, because Krell’s taking out another four men with a single swing of his lightsaber. 

_Breathe in, breathe out._ He steadies himself, and then he slowly gets to his feet again, running after where the others are heading. 

“Hey, ugly! Come and get me!” a Trooper who Waxer assumes is Tup yells. Krell takes the bait, and–he’s about to cut the kid in half, shouldn't Waxer _do_ something–

Before he can do anything at all Krell is grabbed by what looks like a tentacle and grunts as he is lifted into the air. Tup steps back, and a mouth with teeth opens up from what Waxer thought was a plant, and, _ew._

Krell cuts one of the tentacles off, falls back to the ground and is immediately picked up again. People start firing at him. It’s the least Waxer can do to help. Krell is thrown around again, but this time he catches the right tentacle and cuts it off, falling to the ground, and–

Tup gets to him before he can do anything else. 

“I stunned him, Sir!” he says, stepping back to make way for the Captain.

Rex uses his foot to roll Krell over, and stares at his unconscious form for a moment. “Nice work Tup,” he then says, and it’s genuine and filled with a feeling of _proudness._ Tup stands a little taller. 

Waxer, finding that his job here is done for now, uses the bit of peace to finally collapse. Someone catches him before he hits the ground, and when he forces his eyes open Kix is looking back at him, brows furrowed and not quite angry, more disappointed. 

“Waxer, _Gar mirsh solus,”_ he hisses. “You were already _shot,_ and now the captain says you got force-choked. You’re lucky that you’re still alive.”

Waxer does his best to grin. “There’s no luck,” he says, only repeating his own General's words. There was a second part to this saying, something about the force. Waxer forgot. He believes what his General says, though. He’s glad they got Kenobi and not someone like Krell. 

Kix snorts. “Be quiet. We’re getting some of the men to carry you. And don’t you dare think about dying to get out of being questioned by the Captain later.”

Waxer groans. Right. He still needed to think of something for that.

He fell unconscious somewhere on the way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandoa translations: 
> 
> Vode-Fanon word for “Siblings”, Plural of “vod”.  
> Osik–Bullshit  
> Udesii–Calm down, take it easy  
> Ne’johaa–Shut up!  
> Demagolka-Monster  
> Ke’sush–Attention!  
> me’ven?–Huh? What?  
> N’eperavu takisit–Sorry (literally “I eat my insult.”)  
> Gar shuk meh kyrayk–You’re no use to me dead (said to encourage someone to take a rest; rarely literal.)  
> K’oyacyi–stay alive, come back safely  
> Gar mirsh solus–You’re an idiot (literally "Your brain cell is lonely.")
> 
> Waxer: ninety percent of the time I have no idea what the fuck I’m talking about
> 
> Thank you for reading!  
> I wrote all of this yesterday night in a sudden burst of inspiration. I actually have (kind of) a plan where I'm going with this, and If I keep going at this speed I'll probably get the next chapter out in a week. But not only is Waxer an unreliable Narrator, I'm also an unreliable Writer so If the breaks in-between get a bit longer just assume that I'm drowning in assignments.  
> Anyway, some explanation. Waxer is force-sensitive in this fic; but he wasn't before the time-travel happened. I'm going to explain this soon (hopefully). Waxer also has no idea how to deal with any of the things happening, but you might've been able to tell.  
> The few clone OC's I've used this chapter (mainly 212th shinys and a few older troopers) are all massively underdeveloped. Originally they were supposed to be Longshot and a few other named troopers–but then I remembered they died before this arc happened. I'm actually going to do something with their characters but for now they're just acting as random troopers. The only ones who I've put a bit more thought into are Stars, Twenty-seven and Singer, even if all three of them are dead. (It was heavily hinted at, but in case it wasn't clear, Singer got decommisioned.) I've tagged this as Codywan but we won't actually get to see them interact for more than two sentences until some time later, and their relationship will mostly be secondary since I'm focusing on Waxer.  
> The name of this fic is from mitskis song “I bet on losing dogs”. I found the entire thing fit Waxer very well. 
> 
> Please leave a review or kudos if you enjoyed! (I crave the validation!)


	2. Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Clones aren’t force-sensitive,” Waxer says. It’s a dumb answer, he knows that, but this is what he has believed his whole life.  
> “You might be an exception,” Kenobi says.

Waxer wakes to the sound of arguing. 

“He’s the lieutenant, he should be questioning him with us, he deserves to–“

“Captain, he is not in a good enough state for that. For now he’s holding up fine but until General Kenobi comes he should stay where he is and rest. He can barely stand!”

“Waxer is strong and Jesse can help him walk. He’ll want to be there, and I know you take your duty as a medic very seriously, but–“

“That’s right, Sir, and as his medic I advise him to rest, force knows he needs it. Do you really want to argue with me?”

“Kix, if he were awake he would–“

“He’s not awake though, and you better let the man sleep, or I’ll make sure you will have the worst time of your life next time you end up in medbay, I swear–“

“I’ll go,” Waxer interrupts them. 

Kix whips his head towards him. He frowns, scrunches his nose and squints his eyes at Rex. “See what you did,” he accuses him. Rex rolls his eyes, kneels down next to Waxer and grasps his shoulder. “How are you feeling, brother,” he asks. 

Waxer forces a smile. “Painkillers are definitely still working,” he says, and Kix snorts. Then, Waxer goes still. 

“How many,” he asks. He doesn’t need to elaborate, and Rex sighs. “Twenty-seven,” he says, and Waxer flinches, and then lowers his head. “Thirteen of your men.”

“Are they–“

“Everything’s being taken care of. We haven’t done the remembrances yet, we wanted to wait until you were awake.”

Waxer nods, and thirteen isn’t what counts as high casualties, but these men didn’t have to die. There was no reason for all this. It made no sense. Why would Krell kill his own men?

“I’m coming with you,” Waxer tells Rex, and Kix looks like he wants to protest but closes his mouth again. He sighs in defeat. “Fine,” he says. “But watch out, _vod_.”

A trooper that introduces himself as Jesse helps Waxer walk as they enter the brig, and then they’re standing in front of the cell. There’s a trooper in the one next Krell’s; he looks as if he’s going to burst into tears any second now and can’t be older than nine. Waxer wonders what he’s done to be here. 

“Why, General?” Rex asks Krell. Waxer and the other four troopers he has chosen to come with him stand a little behind the Captain, and Waxer’s glad that Krell is focusing on Rex for now. 

“Why kill your own men?”

Krell, looking more punchable than ever, chuckles. “Because I can,” he snarls. “Because you fell for it. Because you’re _inferior_.”

Waxer hates it when people talk about them as if they’re somehow less of a human being than natborns (just like every brother does; some get used to it, though. Like the Coruscant guard. They can’t afford to get upset over something like that, not when it happens daily). He exists, and he’s real and alive and sentient.

“But you’re a jedi! How could you?” Waxer turns his head towards Rex, and–the Captain, understandably, is _furious_. He’s a walking bundle of barely contained anger and unbelief and over all of these there’s the feeling of _betrayal_. 

“A jedi?” Krell laughs. “I am no longer naive enough to be a jedi.” The trooper in the cell next to him turns, and the grief coming from his body is deafening to Waxer. Beside him Jesse shakes his head in disbelief. 

“A new power is rising, I’ve foreseen it. The jedi are going to lose this war, and the republic will be ripped apart from the inside. In its place is going to rise a new order, and I will rule as part of it.”

“You’re a Seperatist!” Rex accuses him. 

“I serve no one’s side except my own. And soon, my new master.”

 _New master. He’s a sith_ , Waxer thinks. He wonders why his lightsabers are still green and blue and not the typical sith-red. But then again, Waxer has no idea how lightsabers work. 

“You’re an Agent of Dooku.”

“Not yet. But when I get out of here I will be. After I’ve succeeded in driving the Republic from Umbara the count will reward my actions and make me his new apprentice.”

“How could you do this?” The trooper in the cell finally snaps. He clenches his teeth, and his face twists. “You had my trust, my loyalty, I followed all of your orders, and you made me kill my brothers!” He’s shouting the last end of the sentence, desperation turning into fury. 

Krell laughs again. “That’s because you were the biggest fool of them all, Dogma. I counted on blind loyalty like yours to make my plan succeed.”

The trooper—Dogma—goes quiet. Waxer doesn’t need to be a mind-reader (or force-sensitive) to know what he’s thinking. 

“That will never happen,” Rex says, voice steady. “You’re a traitor, General, and you will be dealt with as one.”

Krell smirks and there’s no sign of him feeling any sort of unease. “You never learn, Captain. The Umbarans are going to retake this space, and when they do, I will be free.”

Krell, seeming as if he notices the other clones in the room for the first time, looks past Rex right into Waxer's eyes. “Ah,” he says, almost a mocking tone in his voice. “It’s the wannabe jedi. I get the feeling a lot of this is your fault.”

Waxer’s not too sure of that, but he stands a little taller anyway.

“I’m not a jedi. I’m a clone. You killed my brothers, and now you will pay for it.”

He can feel the eyes of the other clones in the room on him, and he knows he’ll have to explain this later (but _how_ when he didn’t understand it himself?)

Krell squints his eyes. Then, he smiles with his teeth. “You know,” he drawls. “The count certainly could make use of another apprentice. You’ve already gotten some grasp of how to control the dark and weren’t afraid to use it on me, so why don’t–“

“That will _never_ happen,” Waxer interrupts him, repeating the Captain’s words. “I’m a brother, not a jedi and especially not a sith. I’d rather die than join you.”

Krell seems to have suspected this answer, because he doesn’t miss a beat replying. 

“Oh, you will,” he says, sits back and closes his eyes as he seems to start meditating. Rex’s face falls even more, then he turns away from Krell abruptly, clenching his teeth. “We’ll discuss this outside,” he growls. 

“Captain, we’ve repaired the transmitter,” an approaching 501st trooper tells the group. “It looks like it was sabotaged. We received a message from General Kenobi. His forces have captured the Capital, but the remaining Umbarans are heading here.”

 _At least Boil’s campaign went well,_ Waxer thinks, and a feeling of proudness overtakes him. In the back of his mind he knows his batchmate is safe, can almost feel his steady heartbeat–It’s as if there’s some kind of string, glowing softly. Waxer leaves it alone for now. 

Rex nods, even if more to himself. “Get everyone on the perimeter. We need to prepare for a full-scale attack.”

“Yes, Sir,” the trooper says, salutes, and then he’s off again. 

Rex watches him go. He looks tired. “Krell sabotaged the transmitter,” he says and turns towards them again. “He’s been against us from the beginning.”

“If the Umbarans get him, he’ll turn over all our intel,” the arc trooper next to Waxer says. “The defense codes, everything. He’ll strike a crippling blow to the republic!”

Jesse looks like he wants to step forward, but stays to support Waxers weight. “Something has to be done. We can’t risk the possibility that he might escape,” he says anyway. 

Tups eyes glance over to the Captain. “As long as Krell’s alive, he’s a threat to every one of us.”

Waxer says nothing. It’s all been said. Captain Rex hesitates for a moment and closes his eyes, before he quietly says, “I–agree.”

When they go back into the brig, the first thing they do is get Dogma out. Waxer thinks that he’s learned his lesson, whatever he has done; To him he might as well be screaming in regret, that’s how strong his emotions are. The arc keeps his hands cuffed. 

Rex comes to a halt in front of Krells cell and draws his blaster. “Turn around. Step toward the wall.” 

His voice is carefully blank, and his face wiped off all emotion.

Krell frowns, and then he complies.

“On your knees.”

Jesse opens the cell, but Krell isn’t moving. “You’re in a position of power now,” he says to Rex and laughs. “How does it feel?”

Rex stands tall, points the blaster at Krells back. “I said; On–your–knees.”

This time, Krell follows the order, but not without a smirk Waxer can see even from where he’s watching. “It feels good, doesn’t it? I’m sure your force-sensitive clone would agree. But–”, he smirks even wider, “–I can sense your fear. You’re shaking, aren’t you?”

He’s right. Waxer doesn’t like to say it, but he can feel the Captains fear as well. It surrounds Rex, and–If Waxer had any idea on how to control this, maybe he could calm his fear, make him less afraid, but as it is, he can’t.

“What are you waiting for? The Umbarans are getting closer,” Krell says. Rex's eyes flicker to the ground, he shakes himself ever the slightest and then stands tall again. “I have to do this,” he says. 

“You can’t do it, can you?” Rex’s face twists, and suddenly Waxer senses a burning rage, but it doesn’t come from the Captain. He whips his head around and just catches Dogma lifting a blaster.

“Eventually you’ll have to do the right thing and–” And then there’s a zap, a grunt, and Krell’s body falls to the floor.

Everyone turns towards Dogma. The arc’s hand reaches for his holster, where his blaster had been just seconds ago, and to no one's surprise it’s empty. 

“I–”, Dogma breathes. Lowers his head. His eyes are wide and his mouth hangs open. “I _had_ to. He betrayed us.” 

Carefully Waxer reaches out and guides his still cuffed hands—that were holding onto the blaster for dear life—down, and he looks over to Rex. 

“It’s okay,” he says, and he’s not only talking to the trooper next to him. Rex looks to the ground and shakes his head. His hands fidget. They’re still shaking. 

Waxer wonders what’ll happen now. They did the right thing, but they’re also clones while Krell had been a natborn jedi, and at least Dogma will have to defend himself in front of the senate, and…

Waxer doesn’t want to worry about that right now.

Dogma chokes down a sob, and Waxer puts a hand on his shoulder and mutters quiet words that he hopes are a comfort. Even if he doesn’t know this kid too well, he’s still his _vod’ika_. 

They leave Krell’s body. None of them want to give them any sort of respect, not even in death, not when he’s the reason so many of their brothers are dead. 

The Jedi are supposed to be the good guys. How did this happen?

Waxer feels the 501st’s troopers eyes on him as they leave the brig; Now that Krell is dealt with, the problem with–well, him, remains. 

“Waxer, can I talk to you for a second?” Rex asks him. His voice leaves no trail for Waxer to pick up any emotions, and Waxers neck prickles. 

“Sure, Sir.”

Waxer follows the Captain away from the group, until they’re standing at the wall of the building, and then Rex stops and studies Waxer. “So,” he begins. “Was Krell right?”

Waxer shifts. Considers his words. “I’m–not sure, Sir. But I do think It would make sense.” If Rex notices that he’s avoiding to say the words, he doesn’t comment on it. “How’d you hide it from the lognecks? They would’ve decommissioned you.”

“This only happened at the start of this campaign, Sir. Before that I have never noticed anything.” It isn’t a lie, again, just not the truth, and Waxer feels bad, but–there is no way Rex would understand. Rex is standing with both feet on the ground, never believes something until he had seen it himself. 

(There are two things Waxer always believes in without a doubt–his brothers and the jedi. He wouldn’t call it blind faith like the one Dogma had apparently shown to Krell, he can very well tell when someone is wrong. It just means that he’ll always trust them above anyone else.)

Rex frowns, and then grasps Waxer's arm and meets his eyes. “Talk to your General about this,” he says. “I don’t know _osik_ about the force, but Kenobi’s a jedi. If you’re worried about going alone, get your commander.” He hesitates before continuing. “But–be safe. If the wrong people get wind of this, it could end badly.”

Waxer lets out a sigh of relief. Yes, Kenobi would help. 

“I will tell him,” he promises. “I don’t know what’s going on either.”

Rex snorts. “I can tell. But–intended or not, It’s thanks to you that many men are still alive. I don’t want to think about what might’ve been.” He sighs, squeezes Waxer's arm. “Be safe, _vod_.”

“You too, Captain.”

They have the remembrances, and backup arrives shortly later. Dogma is brought into one of the transport-ships and Waxer sees him exchange a knowing look with Rex. 

Kix looks as if it would love to throw Waxer into one of the ships too, get him to a proper medbay and all that. He’s trying to get Waxer to move when the arc-trooper from before moves over to the three of them, smiling. 

“General Kenobi's battalions have routed the last holdouts of Umbarans, and we’ve secured all sectors,” he says. “We did it. We took Umbara.”

Waxer stares. He supposes they should feel good about this, but one look at Rex shows him that the Captain doesn’t share that feeling either. He looks–tired. 

“What’s the point of all this?” he says quietly, stares at nothing in particular. “I mean, _why_?”

The arc goes quiet. Furrows his brows. 

“I don’t know, Sir. I don’t think anybody knows. But I do know that someday this war is gonna end.”

“Then what?” Rex frowns, looks over the vode close to them. “We’re soldiers. What happens to us then?”

Waxer is quiet. No matter how much he dreams of a quiet, casual life after the war and of returning to Numa–Rex is right. They are made for war, made to die for it; It’s all they’ve ever known. The republic doesn’t even recognize them as human beings. If the need for them is gone, what will they do with them? They’re basically droids to some people. Waxer knows that the _vode_ of the Coruscant guard sometimes have to do meaningless tasks for the senators. Is that what they’ll become? Modern day slaves?

“I don’t know,” Waxer says, and he can’t be bothered to use a rank. He puts his hand on Rex’s shoulder and hopes it’s somewhat reassuring. 

He asks Kix if he could help him walk to the ship. Waxer can’t wait to see Boil again. 

They put him into bacta for two days, and when he wakes up Boil is sleeping on a chair in medbay, a half eaten ration bar next to him. Waxer groans while he wakes up, grasps his head and then takes a look at his batchmate. At least Boil got out fine. His hair is ruffled and messy but–overall, he seems alright. 

“See who woke up,” a voice says next to him, and Flow, one of the new medics of the 212th appears on this side. Waxer likes him; He’s kind and patient. Very different to the medics of the 501st, Waxer knows now, and appreciates his _vod’ika_ even more. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Waxer says. “A bit of a headache.”

“Well, that’s understandable, considering what I’ve heard about the campaign.” Flow points his thumb at Boil. “He’s been in here the entire time. Couldn’t get him to move. The Commander had to bring him his food in here because he refused to leave your side.”

“That’s Boil for you,” Waxer shrugs. Flow rolls his eyes. “If one of you ever bites the dust the other will probably eat his blaster,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in his words. “Also, Waxer, you’re in for a big one after you’re out of here. Not sure what you did on Umbara, but the shinies that came out of it adore you. Well–they’re not shiny anymore, I guess. I had to send a group of five away just a bit ago. They wanted to show you their armor.”

“They wanted to show _me_ their armor?” Waxer asks. 

“Yep. They think you’re the greatest. Boil yelled at one of them though, I can't remember why.”

“Ah.” Waxer squints his eyes at Boils unconscious form in the corner, but then smiles fondly. “I survived Umbara,” he says to no one in perticular, and he feels _powerful_. He made a change. He did _something_. That was _his_ doing. 

It shouldn’t be surprising, butterfly effect and all that, but–he’s a clone. His main characteristics should be not mattering, being replacable and not changing things. And yet–

“You did, but only barely,” Flow says. “Kix patched you up good but the wound was still pretty much open for several hours. It’s a miracle you didn’t bleed out.”

Waxer hums. Before he can answer, there’s a grunt, and when Waxer looks away from the medic Boil is looking back at him. 

“You’re awake,” Boil says, gets up from his chair and moves over to Waxer. Waxer flashes him a smile. “Told you I’d try to stay alive,” he says and laughs. Flow hits him. “Save your energy,” he grumbles. 

Boil doesn’t look too amused either and squeezes Waxers arm. “ _Di’kut_ ,” he says, but his fond smile betrays him. “If you pull something like this again, I will beat you up, Waxer.”

Waxer only grins wider. “Just say you were worried about me,” he says. 

Boil rolls his eyes. “Why do I put up with you.”

“You love me. I’m your best friend.”

“The only thing you are is a big Inconvenience. How many times would you have gotten decommissioned if I hadn’t been there? Now shut up, you need to rest.”

This time it’s Waxers turn to roll his eyes. “I feel fine,” he tries to argue, but Boil shoots him another unimpressed glare and that’s that. Waxer knows when he just has to lie there and wait until Flow lets him go again (different to the Commander or the General, who are both equally good at hiding fatal injuries and get equally upset at finding out the other has untreated fatal injuries. It would be funny if Waxer wasn’t so worried for their lives).

“Also, the General visited while you were asleep,” Flow suddenly says and Waxer chokes on air. The medic raises an eyebrow before continuing. “He wanted to check on you and asked if you could come by his quarters once you feel better. What did you do? Does our General just want tips on how to ask Cody out or–?”

“Doesn’t really matter,” Waxer says quickly. He can feel Boil glare at him. 

Flow shrugs. “Well, I don’t care. Just don’t get yourself decommissioned or something.”

“I wish you would stop talking about me getting decommissioned,” Waxer mutters. 

Flow shushes Boil out of the medbay after that, and Boil (though reluctantly) leaves, but not without promising Waxer to visit when he’s being let out again.

The medic insists on keeping Waxer there for another day, and when Waxer finally puts on his armor again he feels more refreshed than he has in a long time. A good night's sleep really can do wonders.

Boil waits for him to get dressed, and Waxer remembers that he should visit the General first thing. Pushing it away will only make things worse in the long run.

Kenobi’s a good man. He’ll help, but Waxer still feels uncomfortable about Kenobi wanting to talk to him before Waxer himself said anything. Maybe one of his _vode_ mentioned something?

“Stop thinking so loud,” Boil tells him when they wave Flow goodbye. 

Waxer huffs. “Shut up.”

There’s another beat of silence before Boil stops Waxer and puts a hand on his arm. His Twin squints his eyes at Waxer. 

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on, or do I have to bribe the General later,” he says drily.

Waxer has never been able to keep anything from Boil, not when they were cadets and not now. He sighs, and he can feel Boils frustration. “Not here,” he then says. “Maybe–you could join when the General wants to see me.” Rex had suggested taking the Commander with him, and Waxer is friends with Cody but he wants to have Boil with him for this. It solves two problems in one.

Boil frowns. “What did you do this time,” he says. He doesn’t phrase it like a question, and Waxer doesn’t answer, just gently nudges his arm. They’re about to carry on on their way to the General’s office when a voice shouts behind them. 

“Lieutenant Waxer, Sir!” 

Boil and Waxer turn around, and find themselves looking right at one of their brothers. The trooper takes off his helmet, puts it under his arm and looks at Waxer. His smile is wide, and there’s a fresh scar going from the corner of his mouth up to his forehead. 

“Sir! I’ve been wanting to catch you since we arrived back on the negotiator, but our medic sent me away. I want to thank you for being such an inspiration!”

Waxer is baffled. He stares at the–he’s not a shiny, his armor is painted, but he acts like one, still–and then back to Boil, who shrugs. Very helpful. “Uhm,” Waxer says, drawing out the word. “Sure you got the right guy?”

The trooper stands a little taller. “Positive, Sir! You’re the reason Umbara went so well, and you showed us–showed _me_ that it’s more important to listen to your brothers than to listen to our Generals.”

Waxer blinks. Then, he actually looks at the kid again, and–

“You’re the shiny I tackled when you wouldn’t listen to me,” he states. 

( _A shiny turns around and starts shooting into the dark where the others must be, and Waxer curses and flings himself at the kid. “Stop shooting!” he shouts, punches the blaster out of the shinies hands and jabs a finger at him–_ )

The trooper goes red. “Uh-yes, sir!”

Waxer can’t quite hide his own excitement. He’s just a pretty regular guy and honestly fine with that, and still here’s a shiny looking at him as if he’s Commander Cody himself.

“Do you have a name?” he asks. Boil looks at him in confusion, tries to get Waxer's attention by tapping his fingers against his armor, but Waxer is enjoying this too much. 

Surprise shines in the troopers eyes. Then, he smiles wide. “It’s Shoot, Sir!”

Waxers mouth twitches. “Shoot, huh,” he says. 

Shoot nods. “I named myself yesterday, Sir. Because of Umbara. It was my first battle.”

Waxer reaches out and squeezes Shoot's shoulder. “It’s a good name, _vod’ika_.”

Shoot beams. 

“ _Gar mirsh solus_ , Shoot! _K’olar_! Where did you–“

Another shiny steps towards them but freezes once he sees who his brother is talking to. He salutes quickly. “Sirs!”

Waxer can’t help himself–he snorts. “At ease, shiny.”

The other shiny looks at him. Then, he takes off his helmet too, seemingly just to glare at Shoot, and–

Something inside Waxer _twists_. 

He can’t tell why, but this trooper is _familiar_ , even if Waxer can’t remember ever seeing him before. He doesn’t have anything unusual about him, his hair is maybe longer than the usual cut shinies have and there are dark circles under his eyes, but his armor is blank, not even his helmet is painted, and yet it feels–

Waxer needs to talk to the General so badly. This is confusing. 

“Waxer,” Boil says, and Waxer comes back to reality. Shoot must’ve asked him something, because he’s looking at him expectantly. Waxer clears his throat. “Sorry, I was–thinking. Hey, have we met before,” he then asks the other shiny. 

The shiny hesitates, and then he shrugs. “We haven’t talked, Sir, but I’ve fought with you in several battles before. My name is Lara.”

Waxer frowns. Not a shiny, then. “Your armor–“

“I don’t want to paint it.” 

Before Waxer can say anything else, Boil gets to him. “Don’t _want_ to paint your armor? People won’t know who you are in battle,” he says. Waxer nudges him in an attempt to get him to be a bit less–Well, _Boil_ about this. 

Lara doesn’t break eye contact. “Good,” he replies drily. He turns to Shoot and gives him a clearly forced smile. “Training in an hour?” 

Shoot frowns but nods, and Lara looks satisfied with that answer. 

“Nice talking to you, Sirs. Let’s not repeat that any time soon,” he says to Waxer and Boil, and then he passes them to go to maker-knows-where. 

Shoot coughs. “Sorry about him,” he says. “He’s rude.”

“I’ve noticed,” Boil says and wrinkles his nose. 

Waxer looks after where the trooper disappeared. Something doesn’t add up here. “How old is he?” he asks out loud.

“Uh,” Shoot says. “I think he’s twelve? Must be the same age as you.”

Waxer exchanges a glance with Boil. They normally knew every older trooper they worked with; There are reasons why they don’t approach shinies. Getting attached to them would make things worse, considering a lot of them don’t survive their first battle. 

Lara, for some reason, decided not to paint his armor, and Waxer had never given him a second look–he can’t imagine other older troopers doing so, either. No wonder he seems to be friends with shinies. Waxer feels a pang of guilt, but really, how should have known? 

“Sir,” Shoot says. “There’s something else. What I’ve wanted to ask is–do you think we would get in trouble for painting Krells head onto our pauldrons?”

Waxer lifts an eyebrow. “Just his head?”

“Well, obviously he would be dead. We think it’s a nice design but we also don’t want to get decommissioned for having a dead used-to-be jedi on our armor.”

Waxer shakes his head, but smiles. “Sure, Kid. The General won’t care.” Shoot salutes and barks, “Thank you Sir!” before he runs off. 

_Damn it_ , Waxer thinks. _I’ve already grown fond of him._

Boil glares, Waxer can tell, but he waves him off. 

Once Shoot is gone from their view his twin shoves him. “What _was_ that,” he says, a teasing tone in his voice. Waxer shrugs. “How much do you know about what happened on Umbara?”

Boil crosses his arms. Lifts an eyebrow. “I know the basics. Krell turned evil, you almost attacked the 501st because he told you to, a trooper killed him.”

Waxer wants to laugh. “That really is the basics. There was more.”

“Well, obviously,” Boil says. He moves a little to the side to let a group of troopers past. “You had marks on your throat. I assumed that was Krells doing.”

Waxer makes a pained sound. “Don’t remind me. Wasn’t pleasant.”

“You don’t say.”

They stop walking. General Kenobi's quarters are right there, and Waxer feels a chill go down his spine. He really doesn’t want to be here. 

“Are you coming?” he asks Boil, and to his relief his twin nods. “As long as the General doesn’t send me away again, I’ll be there.”

Waxer nods once again and then approaches the door. _Knock-Knock-Knock._

Silence. 

_Breathe in, breathe out._

Then; “The door is open! Do come in!”

Waxer looks over to Boil, and then he pushes the door open. The General is sitting on the ground, his legs crossed, and he’s smiling warmly at them. “Waxer, Boil,” he greets them. “Good to see you all patched up, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Waxer says. “You–wanted to talk to me?”

Kenobi blinks, and then he closes his eyes entirely and chuckles. “Yes, I suppose I did say that, didn’t I? But–I believe that It’s not me who wanted to talk to you, and more the other way around.”

“Sir?” Waxer asks, afraid he’s missunderstood. 

Kenobi hums. “Ask away, Waxer. I’m sure you knew what you were doing when you brought Boil here, too, so go for it.”

Waxer squints his eyes, tries to organize his thoughts. Kenobi is right, Waxer does have questions. 

“Sir, I believe there’s something wrong with me,” Waxer finally says and cringes at the words as soon as they’ve left his mouth. He shouldn’t word things like _that_ in front of his General. General Kenobi immediately confirms his suspicion, opens his eyes and frowns.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Waxer, nothing at all. But–I have noticed that something has changed since we’ve been to Umbara. Am I correct in assuming that?”

Waxer nods, and Kenobi looks thoughtful. “I’ve thought so. I believe that you want to talk about these changes?”

“Yes, Sir. But I don’t know where to start.”

“That’s alright. Please, sit down, both of you,” Kenobi says and gestures to the ground. Waxer sits himself across from the General and crosses his legs, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Boil do the same. 

“Please tell me about when the change happened.”

Waxer's heart speeds up, and there’s a twisting feeling in his gut. But–best to just spit it out. Waxer had never been one to shy away from the truth.

“After I’ve died on Umbara, Sir.”

Boil is quietly watching him, and Waxer clings to the calmness he radiates. Focuses on the steady heartbeat and the string in the back of his head, lets it brush over him as he thinks of what to say.

There’s silence for a moment, and Kenobi blinks. “Could you repeat that, Waxer?”

Waxer clears his throat. “Yes, Sir. I’ve died on Umbara, I’m very sure of it. And–then I woke up back on the Negotiator. I remember everything that has happened before I died.”

Kenobi strokes his beard in the way he always does when he’s concentrating. “I take it that there’s no possibility it might have just been a dream?”

“No, Sir. At first that’s what I thought, but then everything started happening the exact way it had happened before. That’s how I could hold off my brothers from killing each other, I already knew it was Krell’s doing.”

_Breathe in, Breathe out._

Kenobi nods, and even though deep in thought his expression turns soft. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened on Umbara last time?”

Waxer _really_ doesn’t want to think about it. But he can’t just deny his General's request, so he nods. 

“After I got notified by General Krell my men and I went to the coordinates he sent us. We were the first to open fire, and–At the very beginning of the battle one of the 501st troopers got to me. One of the new shinys, I think his name was Flick, carried me away. He died shortly after, and I killed the one who shot him.”

Waxer fidgets, and he knows he’s started shaking, even if only slightly. He forces his voice to stay steady.

“When he fell over his helmet dropped, and I saw that he was a brother. I tried to tell someone, but my injuries were too severe, I could barely move. At some point the Captain stopped the fight, he must’ve seen one of our faces. It was too late for me.”

Kenobi's eyes are full of understanding, and his voice is gentle. “Waking up after such an experience must’ve been hard for you.”

Waxers feels as if there’s a lump in his throat. He’s suffocating, and can only nod before he forcefully takes another deep breath.

“General, Sir, I don’t know what’s happening. On Umbara, Krell told me he thinks I’m force sensitive, but that’s impossible, isn’t it? And how am I back here?”

The General is quiet for a moment, and then he smiles his kind of sad half-smile that the whole battalion knows well at this point. “Have I ever told you about Anakin's family?” 

Waxer shakes his head. Boil must do the same, because Kenobi reaches up and strokes his beard again. “Well, when I first met Anakin he was a nine year old boy. My master was convinced Anakin was...special. His mother told us that he had no father, and Anakin was–is so strong in the force that it’s not hard to believe that it has something to do with that happening. The force works in mysterious ways,” he concludes. 

“Sir?”

“What I’m saying Waxer, is that sometimes there is little to no explanation for something the force does. But if it decided you were to live, I trust in it.”

Waxer's thoughts are racing, but he can’t grab a single one; he ends up asking the first question that comes to his mind. 

“Sir, how did you know something changed?” Kenobi chuckles and folds his hands in front of his chest. 

“Now, Waxer, I’m no expert at detecting force-sensitives, but let me explain it this way. Every living being feels different in the force; we call this a force-signature. This also includes every single one of your brothers. It’s why it’s easy for me to identify you even if your armor looks the same at times.

When you reported to me on Umbara, I didn’t even recognize you at first–your force signature has changed.” Kenobi shakes his head. “It’s very unusual. I’ve never experienced something like this before. I wasn’t sure to what extent this changed who you are, because in terms of personality you still seem the very same, Waxer. Now I believe it might be your force-sensitivity.”

“Clones aren’t force-sensitive,” Waxer says. It’s a dumb answer, he knows that, but this is what he has believed his whole life. 

“You might be an exception,” Kenobi says. “And even though your case may not be completely natural, I wouldn’t deny the possibility that there’s a vod out there who is born force-sensitive.”

Waxer is quiet. This is a lot. Waxer can take a lot, he’s meant to work under big pressure, but–

His hands are shaking.

Suddenly, there’s a hand on his knee, and when he looks up Boil is looking at him with an expression Waxer can’t read, force-sensitive or not. Waxers stomach twists. 

The string in the back of Waxer’s mind is glowing again. 

Boil turns towards Kenobi, face twitching. “What will happen to him,” he asks, and–oh. Of course. Boil is worried. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, but Waxer didn’t think it would be this bad; 

The feeling isn’t just regular worry, but a sinking and twisting feeling in his gut that threatens to tear Waxer apart–but at the same time it feels far away, as if it’s not his own. _It’s not me feeling that,_ Waxer realizes. _It’s Boil._

It makes sense that Waxer can feel Boils emotions stronger than he can feel other’s; They’re twins, after all. But he wonders how many of the emotions he’s felt have actually been his brothers. Now that he’s concentrating on it, there’s a clear barrier between the calm and somehow yet panicked state of Boil’s emotions and Waxers own more controlled feelings. The two just–blend together, when Waxer isn’t paying attention. 

The shaking, that was him, though. The memory of his death makes his fingers twitch, as if there’s still blood on them, blood that isn’t his own.

Waxer focuses on the golden string in his mind again, a beacon of calm, and Waxer _wonders_ and then he reaches out and tugs on it. Carefully. 

Boil’s head still whips around at record speed. “What the fuck,” he says. 

“What?” Waxer says, and he knows he’s done _something_ , just not what.

Boil squints his eyes and jabs a finger at him. “You did something. I felt you do something.”

Frowning, Waxer holds up his hands. “Okay, maybe I did, but _what_ did i do?”

“You _pulled_ at me!” Boil exclaims. “It–was like yanking my arm or something, but it was in my head instead!”

“Sorry about that,” Waxer says. “It didn’t hurt, did it?”

“No, but it was fucking weird. Kriff. Warn me next time.”

Suddenly, there’s a chuckle, and both of them turn towards the General again. Boil goes red. “General, I–“

“It’s alright, Boil,” Kenobi says, holding up one of his hands. Amusement shines in his eyes. “This is–interesting. It seems as if you two have formed a Force-bond.”

The twins exchange a glance. “What’s that.” Boil asks. 

Kenobi lets his gaze wander from Boil over to Waxer. He smiles. “It’s a gift from the force, and usually forms between two force-sensitive beings that are very close.”

“ _Please_ don’t tell me I’m force-sensitive too. Sir.” Boil says. Kenobi actually laughs this time, throwing his head back. “No, no, don’t worry, Boil,” he assures him. “Sometimes bonds form where only one is force-sensitive. Cody and I share such a bond.” 

Waxer files that important piece of information away for later.

Kenobi clasps his hands together again and hums. “Coming back to your question, Boil, I’m not sure yet what to do. If Waxer had been younger I would’ve probably asked for him to become a padawan, but like this–I’m not sure if that will be entirely possible. Even if he’s technically just three years older than Anakin had been.”

 _I’m glad_ , Waxer doesn’t say. He respects the jedi, but he’s a clone, a brother, and he can’t imagine being anything else. 

“Despite that,” Kenobi continues. “I can’t just leave you to deal with this alone. A certain amount of training and knowledge about the force would be something you should learn. Your abilities could help us in battle.”

“You’ll train me?” Waxer asks. “So–something like ARC training?”

“Oh no, I’m afraid my lessons would be much less intense. I would be focusing on getting you to understand your abilities and to use them in ways that make sense to you.” He hesitates. “I don’t think every trooper of the battalion should know about this, and do be careful as to who you share it with. I still think It would be wise to tell a few people. Is that alright with you?”

“Yes, sure. Thank you, General, Sir,” Waxer says and he means it. 

Kenobi seems satisfied with that answer and leans back. “Very well. Thank you, Waxer. We have a few days off–you deserve to rest, first. I’ll let you know when I’m free to give you your first lesson.”

Waxer nods, again, and then before Kenobi can say anything else, he asks, “Sorry to change the topic, Sir, but what will happen to Dogma?”

Kenobi blinks at him, and Waxer elaborates. “He’s the trooper who shot Krell.”

“Oh,” Kenobi says. “Dogma will have to defend himself in front of the senate, with the help of Anakin and Senator Amidala. The council is deeply disturbed that something like this could happen and if it were for us, there would be no trial at all. But–“

Kenobi gives them his odd half-smile. “The Senate doesn’t always agree with the council.”

He sighs. “If that’s all the questions you have, you’re free to go.”

“That’s all, Sir. Thank you.”

They leave.

Waxer has just shut the door when Boil pulls him into a hug, wrapping his arms around his twin. Waxer freezes for a moment before he relaxes and puts his head onto Boils shoulder, and it reminds him of Kamino once again. He pushes the thought away. _This is not the time_. 

Boil shivers. “You’ll be fine,” he says, and sounds more like he’s talking to himself. “You–you deserve to be fine, for fucks sake. Kriff, If anyone deserves to be, it’s you. You–“

Waxer nudges Boil’s head. “Shut up,” he says fondly. “I _will_ be fine. And If you beat yourself up for anything that happened last time, I _will_ get Cody to actually beat you up.” 

Boil snorts, grasps the back of Waxer's head and then lets him go. “Good. Make sure you keep that promise,” he says.

Only when they’re back in the barracks Waxer realizes that the General hadn’t given him any explanation for the whole time-travel thing at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandoa translations:
> 
> Vod–Sibling  
> Vode–Plural of vod; siblings  
> Osik–Bullshit  
> Vod’ika–younger sibling  
> Di’kut–Idiot, (literally; someone who forgets to put their pants on)  
> Gar mirsh solus–You’re an idiot (literally; Your brain cell is lonely.)  
> K’olar–Get over here at once/come here
> 
> Boil: I should have left you on the street corner where you were standing  
> Waxer: But ya didn’t 
> 
> Hey!! I actually did it! It’s been exactly a week since I’ve uploaded the first chapter of this, and now I’m back with more. I’m not entirely happy with how this chapter turned out so I might go back and edit it sometime, but it’s important to the storyline. There are some explanations.  
> Meet Shoot and Lara! (And Flow, but he wasn’t there last chapter.) I told you I was going to do something with the clone OC’s i’ve created out of bare necessity last chapter. I have big plans for these two, and I hope you like them as much as I do.  
> When I say “That’s not how the force works!” I MEAN *that’s not how the force works*. Because I literally have no idea how that shit works. But neither does star wars, so oh well!  
> Boil uses both “Fuck” and “Kriff” to curse. Reason: I think it’s funny.  
> This was my first time writing Obi-wan. Not sure how well I did, but It can only get better from this point on. The reason for why he avoids most questions and only gives vague answers is that he doesn’t really know either <3  
> There are a few troopers who more-or-less know about Waxer’s force-sensitivity; but the only one who knows a bit more is Rex. I’ll never write this, but Rex gathered all of his men who got wind of Waxers situation and told them not to tell anyone anything.  
> The next chapter is already 30% written; It’ll be a small Interlude from an outsiders perspective before we get back to Waxers POV.  
> 


	3. Interlude 1: Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why are you still like this?” he asks after another long moment, shaking his head. “You already got reconditioned, shouldn’t you be–I don’t know, normal? You know you won’t get another chance, right?”  
> ‘67 flinches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small interlude. Can be skipped if you don’t feel like reading it, but some things that are introduced here will be important to the plot later on.

There is _something_ about music that makes CT-4267’s heart beat faster, makes his fingertips twitch and a smile form on his face without wanting it to. He’s not sure why he reacts so strongly to what is basically just random sounds playing behind one another, but he likes it. 

The longnecks have no sense for music. They think it’s a waste of time, especially for what are beings bred for war and fighting, and ‘67 hates them for it. The only music that exists is the “calming and relaxing” audios that play in the elevators and in the barracks sometimes. ‘67 hates those. They are music, sure, but that’s not _his_ kind of music. 

Most of the longnecks don’t listen to it themselves either, even if they could, which is even more confusing to ‘67. 

‘67 knows that music exists, he always has. It exists with simple patterns of fingers tapping on a table, exists in a simple hum in the fresher. Anything can be music, he figures. 

The first time ‘67 ever hears actual singing is in the barracks when the sun is long gone (as if it had ever been there in the first place–Kamino is mostly filled with clouds and rain and that’s it). His squad has gathered, leaning over each other, singing with all that’s in them. They passed their final test today. They’ll be going out into battle soon. 

‘67 doesn’t think that’s a good thing. But then again, the others don’t really listen to what he’s saying, anyway. It’s alright. ‘67 keeps his distance.

But–now, his squad is singing, clinging onto each other while they’re doing it. ‘67 sits in the back and listens to their voices, feels as if he’s drowning in it. He thinks he’s heard it before. 

An older _vod_ must’ve teached the rest of his batch. 

When they’ve finished singing, he clears his throat, and their heads whip around. As if they hadn’t even noticed he had been there in the first place. As if they had forgotten about him. 

“What’s the name of the song,” he asks. 

Longshot, who declared himself leader of their batch, frowns. “I don’t think it has a name. It’s just a song.”

“Well, every song has a name” ‘67 says. “Maybe we could figure it out somewhere. It has to be some kind of song soldiers are singing, right? Maybe it’s a Mandalorian battle song. The lyrics are in Mando’a.”

The others stare at him. Then, Longshot sighs. “Sorry, but I don’t really care for what the song is. It’s just supposed to be a little bit of fun.”

‘67 blinks. “I got that,” he says, almost offended. “I think it’s fun to try and hack into some of the kamonian databases. It’s not actually hacking anyway, they don’t even try to hide simple information like this. And–we could translate the lyrics using the old datapads from back when Prime teached the oldest _vode_ Mando’a. They have to be lying around somewhere.”

He looks at his brothers faces, and–

‘67 doesn’t know what he expected in response, but he guesses he expected– _something._ Some enthusiasm, maybe. Surely not the deafening silence that follows, with his brothers watching him as if he had grown a second head. 

‘67 drops his arms. “ _What_ ,” he asks after a moment when Oli _still_ hadn’t closed his gaping mouth again, defensiveness in his voice. Longshot avoids eye contact. Mistle’s face twists. Aim squints his eyes.

“Why are you still like this?” the latter asks after another long moment, shaking his head. “You already got reconditioned, shouldn’t you be–I don’t know, normal? You know you won’t get another chance, _right_?”

‘67 flinches. 

Longshot must’ve seen, because he slaps Aim and his brother yelps, but there’s no apology. ‘67 knows they mean what he said; He doesn’t get why he keeps trying to get them to do _anything_ with him. The only reason he’s with them now is that _he_ got reconditioned while their old batchmate got _decommissioned_ for being too small. To them, he’s nothing but a cheap replacement for a friend. 

‘67 wants to feel sorry for them, he really does, and he did for the first few months, but–they’re also so _extremely_ boring. ‘67 can’t stand how they follow every order to a ridiculous amount. For the first few months he was with them they didn’t even have _names_ because they thought the longnecks might get angry (It’s different for ‘67; He _can’t_ settle on a name because he can’t shake the feeling that he’s already known it and the stupid kriffin reconditioning made him forget. No name feels right); ‘67 doesn’t even have to ask them if they actually know any Mando’a. The language was passed down by brothers or sought out in databases now, since the trainers won’t teach it anymore. 

But–all of that’s not ‘67’s fault, is it now?

He clenches his fist and frowns. “Well, fuck you too,” he tells the rest of _their_ batch and signs a rude gesture at them that gets him a gasp from Oli. He scrambles up and leaves the barracks as quickly as he can. “Have a nice time celebrating your deaths,” he tells them as he passes. He doesn’t look back. 

‘67 is fuming. He almost wishes the damn longnecks had just killed him right away, instead of doing whatever the fuck longnecks do when they recondition someone. Sweet, sweet release of death. But–that’s not what he wants either. He doesn’t want to be dead, he just wants himself back. ‘67 has _no_ idea who he is. 

He’s started writing down his personality traits after the first month or so of being thrown into regular cadet life with no memories. He doesn’t like to think back to that time, because he had been almost robotic. Listen to the longnecks, do what you’re told, don’t _think_ about what you’re doing. He’s not sure when he snapped out of it. 

_Likes attention,_ he wrote down on his datapad after he had completed his training that day and grinned at a few cadets that had watched him with big eyes. ‘67 knows he is good at the things he does; He prides himself in being an amazing shot (better than longshot, he thinks. Much better. And longshots name is literally _longshot._ )

(He had added _arrogant_ to the list after a few weeks, and then _self-aware_ to try and make himself look a bit better) 

And no matter how much ‘67 tries, everything that made him the _vod_ he once was is gone; Name, batch, hell, just about _everything._

There is something he wanted to do. The song. 

He wants to find out more about that song. He doesn’t remember all the lyrics, but he has a faint sense of what the words sounded like and hums them as he walks. 

Where would he even look for that? 

‘67 stomps around for a while, until he stops in front of a storage area. He carefully slips inside. 

There’s lots of boxes, and it says _OUTDATED_ on the front of a few of them in big letters. ‘67 decides to go for those first, opens them carefully and grins when he sees the datapads. The first ten ones he looks at are useless to him, just full of old-galactic history that doesn’t seem to be correct anymore, but the eleventh one he goes through makes it worth it. 

‘67 reads. 

**_Mando’a dictionary_ **, it says, and ‘67 shuts it off again and tidies up the place neatly, until everything is back in its place. Then he presses the datapad close to his chest and makes his way down the corridor again. 

When he gets back into the barracks, his brothers are still up, but they don’t spare him a single glance as he walks past and climbs the ladder up to his tube. ‘67 won’t admit that it hurts, even if he doesn’t really care about them. Still, he makes a show of positioning himself comfortably in his opened tube-bed as he opens the datapad again. 

“ _Maker, he actually did it”_ , Aim whispers to Longshot, loud enough that everyone in the room could hear it. ‘67 winks at him. “Told you,” he says and then he leans over the pad. 

Turns out that having no idea how anything is pronounced is a huge fallback on his way to figuring out the meaning of the song. ‘67 goes through the dictionary with furrowed brows, but; not a single one of these words _looks_ like it would belong to the ones he heard. It’s disappointing to say the least. He doesn’t know how to pronounce any of this, and the instructions for it don’t help. 

He stops scrolling at one word, though, and blinks.

 _Laaran,_ he says in his mind. It sounds nice. It means _singing._

“La-a-ran,” he whispers, not fully confident in his pronunciation, but finds that yes, it does sound very nice. Laaran. Laara. Lara. _Lara._

It’s as if something _clicks_ , and ‘67 stares at the word a bit longer, turns it around in his mind, looks at it from all sides and angles. Lara. Shortened, bastardised version of Laaran. 

A name in Mando’a. 

“My name is Lara,” he says no no one but himself, and he actually smiles, and it reaches his eyes. It feels right. That’s _his_ name. Lara. _Laaran._ He’s found it. 

Funny enough, It’s Boil who gives him his first ever mixtape, if you could even call it that. It’s a tiny adapter one can put inside their com, and can play music either over the speaker on his wrist or inside of his helmet. 

Boil also doesn’t give it to him, exactly. More in he leaves it lying on a table in a common area anyone could walk in and Lara uses his chance. Boil doesn’t seem to miss it, and Lara is having the time of his life. 

Lara likes Boil; They’re about the same age, but Boil looks a lot older (he also looks a lot funnier, but Lara doesn’t say that. He really can’t afford to make fun of a superior) and is a lot more grumpy. That’s not all there is though, if the way Waxer and Boil cling together is anything to go by. You would think Waxer would be the clingy one, but it’s Boil who is like his shadow. 

Still, Lara’s point stands. He likes Boil. 

That night he keeps his helmet on and listens through every piece of music Boil has on it, softly taps his foot and shakes his head to the beat. It becomes a thing really quickly. They get back from a rough battle or anything of the sorts, Lara hits the fresher, puts only his helmet back on and goes to sleep listening to songs in languages he doesn’t always understand. 

Some troopers give him odd looks when he walks around in his offtime in only his blacks and his helmet. A few shinys think he’s shy, and that he doesn’t want to show his face. If they’d know; They may all have the same face, but Lara thinks he looks pretty good, actually. 

He never listens to music in battle, because music is for the nice things. He doesn’t want to ruin that for him by associating it with battle and blood and death. 

Lara grows his hair. On Kamino they all had to have the same good old haircut, but now that he was off that hellscape he could actually _do something_ with it. It’s exciting. When they’re visiting planets (or fighting on them, for that matter) Lara makes sure to take a look at the haircuts the people there are wearing. You know. For inspiration. 

One time when they’re at a peaceful event, basically just there for the formalities, Lara steals a notebook from a small shop. Turns out that wasn’t his smartes move. He knows it doesn’t work like a datapad, but that’s what he’s used to; he can’t figure out how to write anything in it. 

General Kenobi sees him struggle, laughs, and says that you have to write in it by hand. He tells him to use his pen for it and return it later. Because Lara is good at writing things down, he makes another list in the notebook about hairstyles that are good. 

He also finds that making small doodles of the cuts he likes is a lot easier with pen and notebook than it is with notepad and finger. The notebook ends up secured safely under his mattress in the barracks, and Kenobi forgets to ask for his pen. 

Lara keeps it. 

(Sometimes, he misses not having a sibling like some of his brothers do. All his vode are family, but–then there are those like Waxer and Boil or Longshot and Aim. Batchmates, Twins, Soulmates, whatever. Most of the time Lara doesn’t care, hell, he’s _glad_ he doesn’t have to worry every day about someone he loves dying. He’d have to love someone for that to happen, first. Other days he misses having someone hug him like that, as if you’re the centre of the whole world. Unconditional love and all that.)

When they’re on break, right after the citadel mission from which not a single 212th trooper except the Commander returned, Lara accidentally finds himself befriending a shiny. 

He’s training in the common rooms when the kid barges in and starts beating the shit out of a training droid. Unprompted. With his bare hands. 

Normally it’s Commander Cody who does that. Lara watches the kid, but when he doesn’t stop he walks over and yanks him back from the droid. The kid’s hands are already bloody at that point, his knuckles bruised. 

“Hey, that’s not–“ he starts but chokes on his words when the trooper whips his head at him. He’s crying. Silent tears are running down his cheeks, and he quickly looks away again. 

“Sorry, Sir,” he says. His voice sounds as monotone as any brother's voice does when they’ve been told their whole life they should be as emotionless as possible. Everything about this kid screams _Kamino;_ Lara hates it. 

“You okay?” he asks, even when he’s not the best at comforting people. The kid shakes his head. “My batch was down there,” he says after a moment. “There were five of us. I wasn’t sent with them. They’re dead.”

The kid swallows, and Lara is at loss. He doesn’t know what this feels like. He hadn’t bat a eye when he heard of Longshots death, couldn’t feel anything at all. Sure, It was sad, he deserved to live longer, but he hadn’t known him. 

Reasons as to why Lara can’t feel anything for Longshot:

  1. Longshot hated him. 
  2. Longshot and him talked maybe a total of ten times in Lara’s entire time on Kamino, and never had it been him to start the conversation. 
  3. If it had been Lara, Longshot wouldn’t have felt anything, either. 



But–he misses his old batchmates, whoever they might be. He can at least _try_ to understand this kid. 

“What’s your name,” he asks. The shiny blinks at him. “CT-7332,” he then says. 

“No name?”

“No. Not yet.”

He’s quiet again, and Lara slings an arm around his shoulder. “Hey, shiny. Remember what they say. _Not gone, merely marching far away_. I believe that your brothers are watching you right now, wherever they are.”

“Not just brothers,” ‘32 says. “Sprint was a sister.”

“Siblings, then. She’s watching you too,” Lara corrects himself. ‘32 hums, and then sweeps his tears away. “What’s _your_ name?” he asks. 

Lara grins. “It’s Lara. Call me Lara.”

“That’s a nice name,” ‘32 mutters. “I’ve tried finding a name but none feel right.”

“That’s okay. I found mine only a few months ago. It’ll come around, anything can be a name if you want it to be.”

“There’s a sibling called _di’kut_. Doesn’t that mean idiot in Mando’a?”

Laras mouth twitches. “A kid called themselves _di’kut?_ ”

“Their batchmates kept calling them that. Everyone else jumped in,” ‘32 explains. “It was the only word our batch knew.”

“I always forget that they aren’t teaching you Mando’a anymore,” Lara says. He’s a hypocrite. Lara knows maybe ten words, and he can pronounce maybe five of them right. 

‘32 shrugs. “You could teach me some. Sometime, I mean.”

This is a horrible idea. Lara’s not stupid; He knows what happens to most shinies. They go into battle expecting it to be like the simulations on Kamino. They expect to walk out onto the field, see the droids, shoot them down and then go back to their ship. 

War is different. War never stops. They go out there, see the droids, start shooting, but it never gets less. Somehow you have to keep moving. That’s not what shinies are being trained for.

‘32 still has that shine in him, the littlest bit left from a child that was forced to grow up too fast, a hint of an innocent being.

Speaking of that. “How old are you?” Lara asks. 

“I’ll be nine in—45 rotations,” ‘32 says, checking his com. 

Lara stares. “You’re _eight?_ ” he asks, a bit louder than he intended to. ‘32 looks uncomfortable. 

That’s _too early_. Those are cadets, not troopers. No wonder the shinies look shinier and shinier with every passing day; They’re not even adults, for fucks sake. 

“Are you okay,” ‘32 asks. Asks _him_. If he’s okay. 

Lara wants to laugh. He doesn’t though, because ‘32 only wants to help, and–

This is a horrible idea, because most shinies don’t make it past their first battle, and it looks like Umbara might be ‘32’’s. Lara has heard bad things about Umbara. Getting attached to a shiny that’ll die within the next few rotations makes no sense and is objectively bad for your mental health. 

But–‘32 needs a friend, and If he can somehow make the kid’s last days any better, maker knows he’ll try. The best szenario would obviously be him not dying at all, but Lara doesn’t like bringing his hopes up.

Next time when Lara grabs his food, ‘32 is there to talk to him. And also when he’s going to the barracks. And when he’s hitting the fresher. And because he must be the luckiest bastard alive, ‘32 sleeps in the bunk next to his. 

Lara feels like he should complain. But–he kind of likes having someone with him. ‘32 lost everyone he had, so him being a bit clingy makes sense. 

_I lost everyone, too_ , Lara thinks. _I was never like that._ And then, after a moment, he wonders, _would I have been clingy if my new batchmates had accepted me?_

He shakes the thought off. There’s no use in thinking about this. There’s no use in doing anything at all. 

He notices that _something_ must be wrong the night before Umbara, when he wakes up because _Waxer had fallen out of his bunk_. Somehow. Despite the reiling. 

Lara blinks the sleep away and watches as Waxer lays still for a few seconds, but before he can ask if he’s okay Boil is already leaning over his twin. 

From where he’s lying Lara has a perfect view to Waxers face, and–

That’s when Lara is awake. Waxer looks _terrified,_ as if he’s about to start crying any second now. One moment later they’re hugging each other close and whisper something that Lara can’t make out. For a moment Waxer looks up and meets Lara’s eyes. 

Lara shuts them quickly. Better not to seem as if he was invading the guy’s privacy–whatever this is about, must be personal. 

Waxer crawls into Boils bunk.

 _He probably had a nightmare_ , Lara thinks. _That must be it_.

He ignores the burning feeling inside of him. 

Lara hates Umbara with a passion. It’s about everything that he despises mashed into one horrible no good planet, and it reminds him of the dark nights on Kamino. (The time on Kamino had also been everything Lara hates mashed into one childhood experience–well, maybe more like teen experience. Regarding the first seven years of his Life they might as well not have happened at all.)

(Sometimes Lara thinks it might be better that way, when a sibling accidentally reveals something from their childhood and Lara thinks _how did they just let that happen?_ )

(It’s not like Lara can do anything about it, though. They’re clones. He’s one of thousands. No one cares.)

They’re with lieutenant Waxer, and Lara realizes he has never talked to him before. Waxer must be the same age as he is, too, considering Boil is his batchmate, but he has a bit of a beard on his chin that makes him look older. He’s also been here for way longer than Lara (the whole reconditioning business, including that he had to stay another _whole year_ on Kamino to catch up on everything that has been forcefully removed from his memory, is at fault for that).

(Lara wonders, sometimes, if any of his original batchmates are still alive, and if they might just be right here with them. It’s very unlikely, but it’s a nice thought.)

Normally, Lara would trust Waxer with his life, even if he has never talked to him before. Not–a lot, anyway. There had been very few times, before Umbara, when the Lieutenant had shouted something at him over that battlefield. 

Which is why when Waxer tells them to take off their helmets, he’s dumbfounded. “With all due respect, Sir, this is a horrible idea,” he shouts at him, but Waxer just repeats his orders and there’s something close to _desperate_ about his voice–

Lara’s heard that tone before. He knows that voice. Lara tries to hold onto the feeling, but the next second it’s gone again. Now he’s not sure if it had been there in the first place. 

This _keeps_ happening. Why does this keep happening?

He shakes his head softly. No time to mourn his old self on the battlefield, or it was his new self he would be mourning. Lara stays in the middle of the group, not to the front or the back; He’s trying to stay alive. That’s his primary goal. His second goal is to make sure ‘32 stays alive as well. 

‘32 makes it hard for Lara to protect him, but apparently the lieutenant is more or less looking out for him; Though when he spares a glance at his _vod’ika_ Waxer has tackled him to the ground and yells something at him. Lara has to refrain himself from tearing Waxer off of his little brother. 

Then the thing with the 501st happens. Waxer gives them orders, everyone looks at him the same way Lara’s “batchmates” used to look at him, and Waxer just _throws_ himself into the bolts of blaster fire. Lara is impressed. Waxer really has it in him.

(‘32 looks at Waxer as if he’s some special unit or something).

And then, Krell. Lara didn’t think it would be _this_ bad, but Krell's lightsaber moves through the bodies of his siblings as if they’re made out of cotton candy. Lara stays away from him. Obviously, he still shoots at the guy, he’s not an idiot and he knows how to do his job. But it’s also not like the bolts seem to be hindering the jedi in any way, no matter how perfect he aims. 

Lara gets careless for one single second. That’s all it takes for Krell to get to ‘32. 

Lara knows it’s him because the kid had waved at Lara just a moment before, and now he lies unmoving on the ground, his helmet cut open and smoke emerging from it. Next to him two other troopers, both with limbs twisting in the wrong directions. The Jedi moves on without giving the troopers on the ground or Lara a few feet away another glance. 

Lara can’t breathe. 

He falls onto his knees beside ‘32 and carefully removes the broken pieces of his helmet. ‘32 shivers under his touch and whimpers. “Sorry,” Lara whispers. 

He almost has his first panic attack since Kamino right then and there, as he looks at his _vod’ikas_ face and all he sees is _blood_. 

“Is it bad?” ‘32 chokes out. Lara shakes his head, touches ‘32’s face carefully, tries to find out where the lightsaber has hit him. He’s still moving. That means it only grazed him, right? 

‘32 flinches under every touch. 

“The cuts aren’t too deep and he missed your eyes,” Lara says, not knowing what he’s talking about. He’s not a medic. He’s nothing. ‘32 has his eyes wide open, that’s how he knows they’re fine. 

“I’m not goin’ to die?” ‘32 asks. 

“I’m not letting you die,” Lara tells him, and it feels as if he’s repeating the words of someone else. “I _won’t_ let another one die.”

He rolls ‘32 up into a sitting position until he can pick him up by the shoulders and put his arm over his own neck. “You can walk, right,” he asks. ‘32 nods. “Walking is fine,” he breathes out. Blood drips to the ground. 

Lara can’t even look at him. 

When they arrive at the base the 501st medic immediately runs over to them and takes ‘32 over to fix him up. Turns out that Lara was right. The scar wouldn’t kill him, it was just–there now. Lara stays by ‘32’s side until he wakes up, and once he _does_ wake up ‘32 won’t stop asking Lara to make holos of his new scar. He’s incredibly proud of it. (“All the _legendary_ clones have scars! Like Commander Cody, or Commander Wolffe, or–well, Captain Rex doesn’t have a scar, but he _does_ have blond hair, and that’s kind of the same thing.”)

(“It’s really not.”)

Lara also catches sight of the Lieutenant, who literally got shot and then chased by a Jedi (from what Lara heard from the others, but he’s kinda lost touch on the situation after ‘32 got Krell’s lightsaber in the face) and was still standing around. 

“He’s so cool,” ‘32 says. 

Lara frowns. “Everything he did I could’ve done, too,” he says. Not because it’s true, but because he wishes it was. Sometimes it feels as if he has two switches, either immense self hatred or unreasonably self-assured. 

‘32 blinks at him. “I didn’t mean I don’t think you’re cool as well. But you’re my friend.”

Maybe that makes it a bit better. Lara decides that he likes having a friend. 

When Lara hears about Krell’s death, he almost wants to pat the trooper who shot him on the shoulder. He doesn’t, though. Mainly because the poor guy is being shipped off to the senate. 

Lara’s collection of reasons why every _vod_ should hate the senate:

  1. They think clones are like droids. Most senators call them “clone,” singular, even if more than one of them are in the room, and if they do notice they’re not all the same person they use the numbers. Never names. 
  2. They don’t think they’re sentient and that’s how they treat them. 
  3. They’re politicians and could probably get each and every one of them at least basic human rights. Proper burials. To have a murder of a _vod_ count as just that, murder, and not as _property damage._ The senators don’t do that. 
  4. They pretend to hate slavery while they tell another soldier to get them water or to do some sort of daily task that really isn’t part of their duties, but the soldier follows their orders, because he doesn’t have a choice. They pretend to hate slavery but it’s happening right in front of their faces, and they turn their head and look away. 



(‘32 calls himself Shoot that day. Lara hugs him.)

Shoot stole his notebook. 

Lara wants to punch something. Maybe someone. Preferably not Shoot, because he actually likes the kid, but any other sibling would do. 

It has to be Shoot, because no other trooper even knows he _has it._ Lara had shown him right when they got back from Umbara in an attempt to cheer him up. At first Shoot _pretended_ to be fine, to be happy about the scar and all that. Maybe that last thing was genuine, but–you never forget your first battle. It fucks you up. 

Shoot screams the first night they’re back, and then almost starts crying when the other _vode_ in the barracks get angry at him for waking them up. Lara takes Shoot to the fresher to go wash his face and then forces him to talk about his feelings. Him. Lara. The one who doesn’t do feelings. He’s being a hypocrite, he knows that. 

Lara hugs Shoot close while he confesses that he can’t stop thinking about the burned bodys of his brothers, about Krell impaling Jex on his lightsaber and snapping Flickers spine in half. Lara hadn’t known any of the other shinies very well, but had exchanged a few words here and there. They thought he was one of them because of his armor. 

_“Why not me?”_ Shoot says. Even now, as he’s breaking down, he's quiet. He whispers. “ _Why did I survive but they didn’t?”_

At times being the one who survives feels almost worse than dying. Not that Lara would know. ( _He almost knew,_ a voice inside of his head says. _If Shoot had died on Umbara, you would know_.)

Lara must’ve done something right though, because after that Shoot is, surprisingly, kind of back to normal. Shiny-normal. That spark still hasn’t left his eyes, and he still smiles with all of his teeth. Lara finds that, yes, maybe he did do something right for once. 

Back to the problem at hand. The notebook. It’s gone. 

Lara _cannot_ afford for one of the natborn officers to find it. He’s collected everything in there, including information that he shouldn’t have access to. Obviously nothing serious. Just things he’s interested in, history, languages. Things that troopers really shouldn’t care about.

A handy list of things troopers _should_ care about:

  1. Winning whatever battle they were fighting and keeping their General alive. 
  2. That’s it. 



Lara storms out of the barracks and whips his head in every direction. Where _is_ the kid? 

He stomps through the hallway, almost runs a shiny over and keeps going. The ship isn’t _that_ big. He’ll search everywhere if he has to. 

Then, he sees him. Shoot is talking to two other troopers, and with the frustration boiling up inside him he doesn’t even spare them a glance at first. 

“ _Gar mirsh solus,_ Shoot!” he hisses. “ _K’olar!_ Where did you–“

He stops. Fuck. Kriffing shit. Waxer and Boil turn their head towards him, and he quickly salutes. “Sirs!”

Better to try and stay out of trouble. 

Waxer snorts. “At ease, shiny,” he says, and Lara glares at him. Bites his tongue to keep himself from making a snarky remark. He’s not a shiny. Instead he clips off his helmet and turns to Shoot. “ _We need to talk,”_ he whispers. 

Shoot frowns. “What? Wait–Waxer, Sir, I want to ask you something first.”

Silence. Lara looks up at Waxer, and the Lieutenant is staring back with an unreadable expression. Lara’s neck prickles. 

“Waxer,” Boil says, and Waxer snaps out of it. “Sorry, I was–thinking. Hey, have we met before,” he then asks Lara. 

Lara hesitates, and considers his options. He shrugs. “We haven’t talked, Sir, but I’ve fought with you in several battles before. My name is Lara,” he adds, even though he doubts that name will mean anything to Waxer. The Lieutenant frowns. 

“Your armor–“

“I don't want to paint it,” Lara interrupts him. He regrets his words as soon as he says them, because–they don’t understand. They don’t know him. 

“Don’t _want_ to paint your armor? People won’t know who you are in battle,” Boil says. 

“Good,” Lara replies drily, not breaking eye contact. Isn’t that what they’re supposed to be? Personality-less and blank?

Obviously Lara has personality. He’s alive and sentient and bla bla bla. He doesn’t mind other troopers painting their armor, understands that they want to differentiate themselves from everyone else _somehow_.

Lara doesn’t deserve that, though. The armor reflects who you are, your experiences, and Lara has been wiped clean of all that. 

The year he had spent in battle meant nothing to him, because he wouldn’t let it mean anything. 

Lara turns toward Shoot again. He forces a smile, but knows Shoot will get the underlying message that Lara is pissed. “Training in an hour?”

Shoot frowns, and then he nods. 

Good. He got it. Lara turns to leave. 

“Nice talking to you, Sirs,” he says to Waxer and Boil in passing, and then, because he can’t help himself, he adds, “Let’s not repeat that any time soon.”

He fastens his step and turns around the corner, and once he’s out of sight he cringes. Ah. He’s fucked that up. What is he _doing?_ Waxer and Boil could get him decommissioned for something like that. He’s tried not to stick out, and now _sticks out_ by _not sticking out._ Maker. That’s confusing. 

Shoot doesn’t have the notebook. He did steal it from him, though, even if he says, “I was just _borrowing_ it!” 

He borrowed it to show his other shiny friends the drawings. One of them asked to keep it for a bit, and Shoot told her it’s alright. 

Lara catches her only a bit later. 

She’s sitting on her bunk in the barracks, braiding her own hair, and yelps when he grabs her arm. “Shoot gave you my notebook,” he hisses. “I’d like to have it back.”

She looks at him and then her face lights up. “You’re Shoots _ori’vod_!” she says. 

“Yes,” Lara says, and can’t help but feel a bit proud. “That’s me. Now, the book.”

The shiny grabs the hand on her arm and shakes it. “My name’s Bite! I wanted the book to try and practice drawing the symbol I want to put on my armor. Shoot said that’s alright.”

Lara loves Shoot, he really does, but right now he wants to shake him and ask what the _kriff_ is going on in his head. 

“You _drew in my notebook_?”

“Yeah! I’m really proud of it,” Bite says. “Here, you can have it back. Tell me what you think.”

She pushes the notebook back into Lara’s hands. From the outside it looks the same. He opens it, flaps through until he’s at the last page that has been used. 

Lara stares. 

A tiny version of Krell’s head stares right back. 

Lara blinks, and then a smile slips from his teeth. “Is that Krell,” he asks in disbelief, looking over all of the different versions of the same idea that are spread over the entire page. 

“ _Dead_ Krell,” Bite corrects. “Me and a few others want to use it. Shoot asked the Lieutenant today if it’s okay, and I made all those slightly different versions. They’re unique to the trooper wearing it. This one is Shoot’s,” she adds and points at a tiny-Krell that has x’s instead of eyes and his tongue sticking out. 

Lara shakes his head softly. “Those are amazing,” he says. 

Bite smirks. She and Shoot still both have that shiny-optimism and excitement that makes older troopers make comments like, “all shinies are the same”. They’re not, really; They’re just not traumatised yet. At least not terribly. 

Lara doesn’t even need to ask Bite to know that she can’t be older than eight and a half. 

Bite gives him the notebook back, and when Shoot enters the barracks that evening there’s a tiny-Krell on his paldron. 

Lara stares at his helmet for an hour that evening before he lifts his brush and paints a wavy line over it. He starts at the left bottom corner and carefully drags the brush over until he stops at the top. 

Shoot’s scar. The scar he got on his first battle because Lara got too careless for a second. Lara _wishes_ it was him who could’ve gotten the scar instead, wishes he could take the pain away from his little brother. 

But then again. Shoot loves the scar. 

Lara feels guilty for painting his helmet, almost angry at himself for giving in, for dismissing the silent promise he made to himself but–he needs this. The rest of his armor is still bare; It’s just the helmet. 

He doesn’t know who he is, but _Lara_ is Shoot’s _ori’vod_. That’s what matters. 

Lara thinks the campaign on Kiros will be fine. He honestly believes in it. Shoot isn’t down there this time, and Lara is glad for it, because it’s one less thing to worry about. Which also means that he really couldn’t care less about the thing. There are no citizens around? They’re probably hiding. (This turns out to be true once they meet a family that has somehow escaped the clankers; The Lieutenants take care of getting them to safety before returning to the fight. Apparently the whole population has been taken to different parts of the capitol without any reasoning behind it that would make sense to them.)

The guy in the tower wants to discuss surrender? Good! Good for the jedi. Doesn’t make any difference to him, but most of his _vode_ are happy about winning so really, who cares?

Everything seems to be going well. Lara thinks that he’s deserved a break. 

He stands a bit to the side of Commander Cody and General Skywalker, leans against the wall of a building and checks his com. One new message from Shoot. 

_Come back safe_ . _Coyacyi!!_

Lara _almost_ snorts. Shoot tries to use lots of the words Lara has teached him, but he seems to always forget how they’re spelled. Lara got the message, anyway. 

“Hey, Lara,” Waxer suddenly says. Lara looks up and frowns.

“What,” he says. 

“Firstly, nice design on your helmet,” Waxer says. Lara supposes he’s lying. Out of formality. To be kind. The “design” looks awful if you don’t get what’s behind it. 

Waxer isn’t finished, though. “You should get into position. I know it seems calm at the moment but there might be enemies around the corner, and if you let your defenses down you might not make it out again.”

Lara groans, but does listen and pushes himself off the wall. “Fine,” he says. “You can bother someone else now.”

Waxer looks at him from up where he’s sitting on the AT-ST. “I’m not trying to bother you. You’re one of our men and I’d like for you to make it.”

“Well, good news,” Lara says. “I’m pretty good at staying alive. It’s my specialty, you might say. I—“

He doesn’t get any further. Right behind him there’s a _bang_ and fire and then Lara is thrown forward to the ground with a grunt and pain explodes _everywhere._ He screams. His head throbs. He feels dizzy but still tries to get up, but–his legs don’t work. _His legs don’t work._

Panic fills him. His legs won’t move, and the fire is creeping closer. He got caught in an _explosion,_ and where one is a second one might follow. It is either get out of here now or _die._

Then there’s a piercing, deafening pain in his head, and suddenly something _twists_ . Lara gasps. Recoils. _What?_

Pictures flood through his mind, one’s he’s never seen before and yet seen so often, word’s he’s never heard before and yet always kept with him barging into his brain. People, noises, songs, dark nights filled with quiet laughter, sparring and training and horrible, horrible food–

Lara sobs into the ground, a broken and defeated sound. Curls his hands into fists to try and stop the shaking. He doesn’t even care about his legs anymore. It’s _so much_. 

He _remembers. He remembers everything._ He remembers Kamino, the first seven years of his life, his _batchmates,_ remembers how he was always in the front, always protected them–they’re all a few seconds younger than he is, he used to call them _vod’ika_ to annoy them, he remembers _his legs not moving_ , and how _this is not his fault, he had no choice, this—_

There is _something_ , for a brief moment, and then there is nothing again. 

Lara stills. 

His mind is quiet. 

Nothing. 

Wiped clean. 

There’s _nothing, nothing at all._

It feels like some sick joke. Someone must be laughing at him right now, must throw their head back in joy and point their finger at the pathetic creature lying in the dirt with a set of fucked up legs and a fucked up brain. Must say, _look at him. Isn’t that funny? Isn’t his suffering hilarious?_

Lara hopes they’re having fun. 

He rolls up onto his back with all the strength he has left and stares at the sky above. It’s not a pretty sky. He’s not too fond of skies in general, but there’s something about them that makes him feel nostalgic. Usually. Not this time, though. 

His face is wet from crying, and he reaches up to touch his cheek with the hand that doesn’t feel like it’s burning. 

Not tears of sadness. Tears of happiness. 

Lara can’t recall ever having cried before. Certainly not out of sadness, and _especially_ not over happiness. There isn’t much to be happy about as a battle-slave of the republic, no matter how many troopers pretend to be happy about their situation. Lara doesn’t buy it for one second. 

_But–he remembered._ He _remembers_ remembering. And yet, here he is, and he knows whatever he had remembered was important, but it’s gone. Vanished. As if it had never been there in the first place. 

Lara feels empty. He got so close. He almost had himself back. 

_Something is stopping me from remembering,_ Lara thinks. And then, after another moment: _It’s all still in there._

He’ll do _anything_ to get himself back. 

Distantly he notices someone shaking him, pulling him up, but he’s too tired, too caught up in his own head to care. He does think, _If I hadn’t moved when Waxer told me to, I would be nothing but dust._ He’s still not a huge fan of him, but–he owes him his life, now. Just great. 

Lara closes his eyes. He just wants himself back. They already get nothing, no rights, no freedom, no safety, he deserves at least this much. It’s all he has. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vod-Sibling  
> Vode-Fanon word for siblings  
> Laaran–Singing  
> Di’kut–Idiot  
> Gar mirsh solus-You’re an idiot (literally; your braincell is lonely)  
> K’olar–Come here, get back here  
> Ori’vod–older sibling  
> K’oyacyi-Come back safely, stay alive
> 
> Lara: I’m cold, I don’t have “emotions”, I don’t care about anyone, friends are for the wea-  
> Shoot: Hello  
> Lara: I’ve adopted you
> 
> And that’s that! :D  
> I know bringing a clone OC into this to be a big part of the plot might be a risky move, but I had already written this and the next chapter from Waxer’s POV ins’t ready yet. There won’t be many interludes, this work will stay Waxer centric. But I thought it might be a good idea to introduce Lara now as he’ll be more important later on.  
> Do I know how reconditioning works? No! I made up my own story about how it’s done and I refuse to do research for it now, afraid that what I’ll find won’t fit into the story.  
> Lara’s a bit of an asshole. It’s not his fault entirely, he’s really trying. Also, when I wrote the scene with him stealing the notebook, I literally made him into a “father, I cannot touch the book to turn it on” boomer comic kid. This is incredibly funny to me. (You know which one’s i mean.)  
> I’ll try to get the next chapter up in a week, but I’ve tried to continue writing on it THIS entire week already (since this chapter was very easy to write and I already had it finished on... Tuesday, I think) and guess how many words I got? Barely 1k. Obi-wan is so hard to write, It’s insane.  
> Also, just as a heads up, the next ARC that comes timeline-wise is the slaver one–and except for the first ep I’ll ignore it because it was horribly written and watching it gave me brainrot. So. We’re not doing that.  
> But because I did need some kind of battle and preferably explosion in order for Lara to get the concussion I decided to keep the first ep and simply remove the entire “the people have been snatched” aspect. Instead they actually ARE in the buildings that are being blown up this time. Not a perfect solution by any means, but I also wanted to at least try and work with what canon gives me.  
> I’ll hopefully see you next week! If it gets a bit later than that I apologise. I’m trying very hard to get as much out as quickly as possible because schools are opening again on the 22th (WHY are the doing that, cases are going UP?? I’m so tired to this system) which obviously might result in me having much less time for writing.  
> Anyway, mwah! Love you all!


	4. Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boil’s head turns.  
> Confusion flickers around him, then understanding, and then then all tension leaves his body. His shoulders slumb and he suddenly looks a lot smaller.  
> “Oh, that was you,” he says quietly.

They get the message the next day. Ten rotations. That’s how much time they have until they’ll be in battle again.

It’s not unusual, and it leaves for at least a bit of time between Umbara and whatever this will be, but Waxer can’t help but wish he had more. More time to figure this out. 

“We’ve gotten an emergency transmission from Master Yoda. The people on Kiros are under potential Seperatist attack despite wanting to stay neutral during the wars,” General Kenobi tells the _vode._ “It’ll take ten rotations to get there, so use your time wisely. Lieutenants Waxer, Boil,” he adds, and every clone including the Commander seems to whip their head at them, “Please stay for another moment. Everyone else may go.”

When the others are gone, Kenobi smiles at the twins. It’s the good kind of smile, Waxer decides. “I’ve got good news,” he says. “I’ve talked to one of my closest friends in the council about what he would do in my situation, and he agreed it would be wisest to train you. If that’s alright with you, Waxer, how about we meet in my quarters in two hours? The upcoming mission will keep me busy for most of the time of our travels but–You’re one of my best troopers, and I can’t let you go into battle unprepared like this.”

“Fine with me, Sir,” Waxer agrees. Then furrows his brows. “Wait, Sir, did you say in your quarters?”

Kenobi blinks. “I did. Why are you asking?”

“Sir, wouldn’t one of the training-rooms make more sense?”

Understanding washes over the Generals features. “Oh, we won’t be needing these. Our lesson today won’t be physical at all.”

And with that he leaves them to their own devices. Boil frowns. “Well,” he drawls. “Have fun with that.”

Waxer shoves him. Boil, because he’s an ass, chuckles. “What? Is there a problem, _vod_?”

“Yes, having to see your face every morning,” Waxer huffs. 

“It’s your face too.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

They start with _medating_. 

It’s–not what Waxer has expected. Well, he hasn’t thought he would learn about training with a lightsaber or how to do the force-float thing today, but _meditating?_ He’s already done that a few times. 

“In order to best use the force your mind must be calm,” Kenobi says. “Focus on sorting your thoughts, and then, once you’ve put them in a box, imagine putting them aside. Visual imagination can help.”

That’s fairly easy. That’s what Waxer has done before, it just feels different now. Once Waxer is done with sorting thoughts he doesn’t manage to keep all of them away, but they feel–distant. He let go of them. 

Kenobi smiles at him when Waxer opens his eyes again. “Very good,” he says. “I see that the times I meditated with you before ended up being quite useful.”

“Your breathing technique, too,” Waxer hears himself say. “I use it before battles sometimes to calm myself down. I think it helps with being calm despite the–uhm, the emotions that I feel.” He cringes at himself. 

Kenobi seems to understand anyway and hums. “Yes, I do imagine that suddenly being able to feel everyone's moods so strongly takes some getting used to. It’s good that you already know this. You’re not perfect in it in any way, probably at the level of a six-year old youngling, but it’s something we can work with.”

Waxer doesn’t know if being compared to a shiny-jedi is a compliment or not. 

“Alright. I think it might be a good idea to teach you about force-bonds and their abilities, considering you share one with Boil.” Kenobi strokes his beard. 

“Most people describe the feeling of a force bonds as a string-like presence in the back of their minds.” He looks at Waxer expectantly and the clone nods. “That fits.”

Kenobi seems satisfied with that answer and nods to himself. “Now, you can interact with that Bond in several ways. The first thing it does isn’t easily controlled; It gives you some kind of better understanding of the emotions the person you share the bond with is feeling. With practice you can learn to block those emotions out; If you concentrate you should be able to find a kind of barrier between–“

“I already found that,” Waxer says, and then realizes his mistake and frowns. “Sorry, Sir, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Kenobi doesn’t look offended at all. “Yes, that’s good, then. If you don’t mind, try to do that again, and find out what Boil’s feeling. You don’t need to tell me if you feel like you shouldn’t,” he adds. Waxer closes his eyes, _breathes in, breathes out_ , and then concentrates on the string again. 

Pushes past the barrier, and–

_Worry, restlessness, unease._

Waxer frowns. “I think he’s nervous,” he concludes. 

Kenobi chuckles. “Yes, he seems to be more nervous about your situation than you are. 

Now, you can also use the bond to communicate to–in your case, Boil–even if you don’t see each other. I believe that you imagined pulling at the string yesterday, when you startled Boil like that?”

Kenobi waits until Waxer nods and then continues. 

“Doing that will give Boil a vague sense of where you are. It’s very useful in battle or when you find yourself in trouble.”

Waxer remembers Kenobi’s comment about him and Cody sharing a bond, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “Is this how Cody always knows where to find you?”

The General looks startled, and then he smiles softly. “Ah. That might have something to do with it, but he’s already a natural even without the help of the bond.”

He clears his throat.

“Another thing that might be helpful to you could be sending certain feelings or thoughts over the bond. Now, considering Boil isn’t force sensitive, he can’t feel your emotions like you can feel his. Let’s say you feel he’s upset or hurt, but can’t get to him right away; You can share your own calmness or simply words such as ‘coming’ to let him know you’re nearby.”

“How do I do that?”

“Once you get the hang of it, it’s quite easy. You already know how when you’re meditating you’re controlling your emotions to release them into the force. When you want to share specific emotions or a thought with the one you’re bonded with, you start the same way; Concentrate on whatever you want them to know.”

Waxer closes his eyes, settles into his mind. He decides it might be a good idea to try and calm Boil, so he focuses on that feeling more. For the moment–he’s safe. He’s with a jedi, his brothers are just a door away and his breathing is slow and steady _._

“Once you’ve done that, imagine pushing what you’re concentrating on into the back of your mind and let it brush over the string.”

Waxer _really_ tries. He reaches out, hangs onto the feeling of calm and safety, gently pushes it forward, thinks, _why does it feels as if it’s heavy, it’s just thoughts_ , and then–

The feeling is gone.

Waxer’s eyes shoot open, and he groans. “I lost it,” he says, looking up at the General. 

“I expected that, It’s alright,” Kenobi says. “You let yourself get distracted. When you take use of the bond, try and trust the force without thinking about it. It knows what it’s doing.”

Waxer shuffles until he’s sitting comfortably, closes his eyes and tries again. Trust in the force. Okay. He can do that. 

Waxer reaches out again, curls his thoughts about the feeling of being safe, pushes and pushes–

He lets go. Blinks. 

“I–think I did it,” he says carefully. 

“You think?”

“I’m not sure. I did what you asked me to, but it feels a bit anticlimactic.”

At that, Kenobi chuckles. “Ah. It’s supposed to be like that. At your stage you won’t be able to send strong emotions over the force yet, which you could also see as an advantage; You can slightly influence people without them noticing.”

Waxer frowns but nods anyway. 

“That’s what you should take with you from our lesson today. It’s important to be wary of your emotions; do not let them control you.”

“Sir, yes, Sir,” Waxer says and salutes. Kenobi winces. “Ah, we’re not on the battlefield, Waxer. I don’t believe I’ll get any of you to stop calling me ‘Sir’, but you really don’t need to salute.”

“Uh,” Waxer says. “Sir.”

The General sighs, but his lips curl into a half-smile. “You’re free to go. I’ve still got a lot to do and I’d like for you to keep practicing until I can help you more on other things.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“So? How did it go,” Boil asks him when they’re sitting in the mess-hall. The food is terrible today. Boil looks at it as if he wants to find whoever did this and make them pay for it. 

Waxer frowns. “Couldn’t tell you if I wanted to.”

“That bad?”

He sighs, pulls his helmet off and puts it in his lap. He rubs his thumb above the painting of Numa. “Not bad. Just weird.”  
Boil looks at him expectantly. When Waxer doesn’t react he makes a vague gesture with his hand. “So, can you show me any Jedi tricks?”

“I’m not a Jedi,” Waxer says. “So I guess they’re just force-tricks. And also no. The General just showed me how to calm my mind and explained the force-bond.”

“Ah.” Boil frowns. “Right. That thing.”

“Yes, that thing. Here, watch this,” Waxer says, closes his eyes and yanks on the bond. 

When he opens them again, Boil looks about ready to punch him. “Stop that,” he says darkly. Waxer only chuckles in response. 

Boil shakes his head and returns to the meal in front of him. “What even is this,” he grumbles, takes a bite and physically recoils. “I don’t think I can eat any more. Maybe I should just starve. Also, just for the record, General Kenobi is the best General out there and I trust his judgement, but he should’ve shown you how to do something that’s actually useful. Like how to crush droids with your hands or how to throw people around like Skywalker does it with the Captain sometimes.”

Waxer thinks of when he choked Krell. He hums. 

“Right. Also, I should probably learn about what counts as dark and light side of the force,” he says. “You know, there’s probably hundreds of rules about what you shouldn’t do with the force. Does destroying droids count as use of the dark side?”

He pauses. “Imagine If I fell. That’d be bad.”

Boil rolls his eyes. “You won’t fall, you’re Waxer.”

“I can’t tell if that’s meant to be a compliment or an insult.”

“That’s for me to know and for you to never find out,” Boil replies, but his grin disappears when he takes another bite of the whatever-the-kriff-this-is. He curses, and seems to decide continuing the conversation is a better use of his time than trying to get his down.

“Also, you’re wrong, the whole do-not-kill thing doesn’t apply to droids because they’re not alive.”

“I figured,” Waxer says.

The next few days pass faster than Waxer expects them to, and then they’re being deployed down onto the new planet. 

Kiros reminds Waxer of Ryloth. 

General Kenobi goes down there first with part of the 501st, including Skywalker and his Padawan, and they’re enough of a distraction for the droids that it’s fairly easy for the 212th to break through the barrier of droids that have occupied the city centre. 

Waxer and Boil are riding AT-ST’s, and Waxer’s done that before, but he remembers just how comfortable it is. Sure, they might be giant targets, but as long as the troopers on the ground take out enough forces as well he got at least a fleeting feeling of safety. 

Not that anyone’s safe on the battlefield. 

While the Rest of the 212th is protecting the set up perimeter, Boil and Waxer search for colonists and scattered droids that are still roaming over the city. 

The area they’re in seems to be a neighbourhood, if the neatly kept gardens that pop up from time to time are anything to go by, and Waxer wishes he had the time to look at the scenery a bit more. But you can’t do that when the enemy could be just around the corner; It’s what gets you killed. 

“Doesn’t seem like a lot of droids are left,” Waxer says. He lets his eyes wash across the houses. It’s awfully quiet. He wrinkles his nose, lets out a long sigh–he can’t wait to be done with this. 

“Yeah,” Boil agrees. He pauses. “Does this remind you of Ryloth or is that just me,” he then says, looking around as if he almost expects to see a little green twi’lek girl running around. 

“No, you’re right. The people aren’t here, so maybe they were brought somewhere. Just like the Twi’leks,” Waxer says. 

“They could all be taken away, yes, but If you ask me _someone_ has to have escaped them. Numa wasn’t hiding in plain sight either, was she?”

“I guess not. What should we do then? We can’t search every corner.”

Boil shrugs, and then he stops the AT-ST. Cocks his head to the side in thought. “I think we should go by foot if we want to find people,” he finally says, as if he’s thinking out loud. “Let’s leave the AT-ST’s here for now.”

Waxer stares at him. “Who are you, and what have you done to Boil,” he finally says, smirking under his helmet. Boil whips his head at him. “Fuck off,” he says. 

They get off the AT-ST’s and Waxer holds his blaster close, taking the lead. Boil stays close behind, and Waxer is glad for the concentration radiating from him. It makes this whole situation a bit less–

There’s a low sound and Waxer flinches, but it’s just an open door swinging in the soft wind. Boil turns. “What,” he says.

Waxer sighs. “It’s nothing. But I tell you, this is creepy,” he whispers. 

The city is completely empty. The light inside of a house they pass is still burning. They can’t have been gone for too long; and yet must’ve been gone for at least the last week, if the General’s information was anything to go by. 

“Now where have I heard that before?” 

Waxer snorts, lets his eyes roam across what seems to be a market-place. There’s small empty booths and fruit splattered on the ground, bits and pieces bitten off. A creature that Waxer couldn’t even try to remember the name of runs off once it spots them.

Boil looks like he wants to say something when suddenly there’s a scream and then a blaster bolt going off. Waxer whirls around, Boil ducks behind the nearest wall but–the shot’s aren’t directed at them. They’re coming from inside one of the homes. The next moment a door next to them slams open and a Togruta woman barges out. She almost runs Waxer over and he pushes her behind him, lifts his blaster, readies himself. 

“Blast them!” a robotic voice from inside the house says. 

Waxer _does_ start blasting. 

The two droids both go down within a second; The head of the one he’s aimed at goes flying up into the air and Boil behind him gets the other. Their bodys crash to the floor. 

The Togruta woman breathes heavily behind them. She's clutching her side, groans when Boil comes to support her weight. “Sir,” Waxer says. “Are you alright?”

The woman grits her teeth. They’re very sharp, Waxer notes. “No. They just surprised me. You are a lot better at aiming than they are, it seems.”

Boil snorts. 

“Sir, do you happen to know where everyone is? Are you alone?” Waxer asks, trying his best to appear friendly. 

The woman stands a little taller and looks them down. “You’re republic soldiers,” she says. When Waxer and Boil nod she relaxes slightly and heads back towards the door. Boil nudges Waxer, silently tells him _you go with her. I’ll keep watch._

“My family and I have been hiding,” the woman explains when Waxer enters the house behind her. “We’ve got a hidden safe room. When the droids came back they must’ve scanned every house for lifeforms. I came out of hiding to try and distract them, but then I saw you two outside and used my chance.”

She stops, kneels down and grips a floorboard before she pulls it off. A small ladder goes down. Waxer doesn’t look more into it, keeps his mind focused on outside and on keeping these people safe. 

“We’re saved!” the woman calls down. “The Republic is here, we can come out.”

“Thank the force,” a low voice from downstairs says, and the next moment the head of a second Togrunta appears, and once he’s out a smaller one follows. 

The tiny-Togruta looks at Waxer with big eyes as she’s picked up by what he assumes to be her mother. “Raana, are they–” the man asks, but pauses and turns to Waxer instead. The air around him hums with doubt and distrust.

“They’re Republic soldiers,” the woman–Raana?–replies softly. Waxer nods. “We are. We have secured the entire sector and came here to remove the remaining droids. Sir. It might be a good idea for you to follow us to our temporary base so we can ensure your safety.”

Raana nods sharply. “Thank you.”

Boil almost jumps when he sees the shiny-Togruta. He catches himself again quickly, but his helmet keeps flicking over to her while they walk back. The little girl stays close to her mother at first but she keeps looking at them, too. After a while she leans over and quietly asks, “Are you droids too?”

“Nata!” Her mother splutters. 

Waxers face twists. Comparing them to droids is–it’s basically the worst insult to any clone. But this is a child, and she doesn’t know better. The people on this planet have no warriors, the only ones holding guns she has ever seen must’ve been droids.

“No,” Waxer says carefully. “We’re flesh and blood, just like you.”

“Okay,” says the tiny-Togruta. She seems to think very hard, and then flashes him and Boil a wide smile. “So you _do_ have faces _under_ that,” she whispers, more to herself.

Boil snorts, and the girl's face turns to him. “Yes, the buckets aren’t our face.”

“Can I see your real face?”

Waxer looks around, checks for any hostile objects. They’re almost at the outpost anyway. Might as well. 

He reaches up and pulls the bucket off in one swift motion, and he sees Boil do the same. The two other adults glance at them for a moment but then look away, as if they’re embarrassed to see their faces. 

“Are you brothers?” the little girl asks after a second. “You look very similar. I like your beard.”

Waxer opens his mouth but doesn’t get to reply. “Nata, they’re clones,” the girl’s father says in a hushed voice, tugging her away while he turns to Waxer and Boil. His eyes don’t meet either of theirs. “I’m sorry, she doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

“It’s fine, she’s just curious, Sir,” Waxer says. She reminds him of Numa.

(Waxer likes kids. He doesn’t see a lot of them, obviously, but he thinks he does well with them if the experience with Numa is anything to go by. He also knows that people will go out of their way to ignore a child's presence or to pretend they are too dumb to understand what’s happening around them. From what he can tell they are often underestimated.)

(Waxer only remembers very little of what it was like to be a child. There’s no room for a child on Kamino.)

“No, she’s not. Kids need to learn what they shouldn’t say–but, well, I don’t expect you to understand that.”

The woman nods in agreement. “You two seem so human that for a moment I forgot you weren’t,” she says with a chuckle, but the joke isn’t directed at them. 

The words take a bit until they sink in, but when they do Waxer almost visibly shrinks into himself. _Ah_. 

It’s not unusual for people on neutral planets to have spread weird rumors about the _vode_. Waxer’s heard a lot, going from they’re-basically-droids to they’re-human-but-braindead to much wilder conspiracies. Really, he should’ve seen this coming. He thinks about explaining that they are indeed human but decides against it–he has nothing to prove to anyone. He knows that he is and that’s enough. The trouble isn’t worth it. 

Boil is different. He clenches his teeth and then puts his bucket back on at record speed, the force around him a raging storm. But–Waxer would’ve been able to tell that Boil’s close to snapping even if he wasn’t force sensitive. 

(It still feels unreal to say it out loud. Though if Waxer thinks too much about it his head starts hurting, so he doesn’t.)

Now he can at least do something about it. Waxer thinks of the barracks after this damn mission is finished, thinks that Kenobi will be glad to see that they’ve saved a family, holds onto the feeling of calm and then pushes it over the bond. 

Boil’s head turns. 

Confusion flickers around him, then understanding, and then then all tension leaves his body. His shoulders slumb and he suddenly looks a lot smaller. 

“Oh, that was you,” Boil says quietly. _You didn’t have to do that_ , he doesn’t say, but Waxer knows that’s what he means. Not because he’s force sensitive, but because this is Boil. And he’s right; Boil can control himself just fine. Waxer knows that. He also knows that dealing with strong emotions is still exhausting, and he _wants_ to make this easier for him. The force hums around Boil and Waxer decides that’s a good thing. He gives him a smile, remembers that he’s wearing a helmet and settles for nudging his brother's shoulder. “ _Kih’parjai,”_ he replies and can’t quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice. 

They go quiet again until they arrive at the temporary base. The Commander takes the family over to talk to them about what they know, and the girl hesitantly waves at Waxer as she follows her parents. 

Waxer waves back. 

Kenobi arrives with part of the 501st a bit later. 

“How are we doing, Boil?” he calls up to the AT-ST. 

“We’re still mopping up clankers here and there, Sir. We’ve established a perimeter around the Governor’s tower. No one gets out without a fight.”

“Oh, and, General—,” Waxer adds, “—we’ve found a family that has been hiding from the Separatists. The Commander talked to them.”

Kenobi frowns, nods at them and then turns to Cody, who’s approaching with a datapad. 

Boil and Waxer turn around and get back to the task at hand. Boil suddenly stops, and then his voice comes through Waxer’s comm, only for him to hear. 

“You see that,” he asks, and nods his head towards one of the buildings. Waxer turns towards it and instantly catches what Boil means. There’s a trooper leaning on the wall, looking _way_ too relaxed, and Waxer’s seen enough brothers die that way. He frowns.

“What is he doing?” he mutters. 

“No idea. You go down and remind him we’re in battle while I join the others?”

Waxer nods, and starts the AT-ST again. As he approaches the trooper he tries to focus on who he is, because he’s never seen that armor pattern before. His presence feels melodic, familiar, and Waxer realizes It’s–Lara, was that his name? 

He stops next to the building and leans down. Lara’s checking his comm, and Waxer takes a moment to look at his helmet. Hadn’t he said he didn’t want to paint it? A wavy, orange line now spreads across the white plateroid. 

“Hey, Lara,” he finally says. Lara looks up. Waxer can’t see his face but the air around him prickles with annoyance.

“ _What_ ,” he says. 

Waxer searches for the right words, because from what he could tell Lara is–easily startled, to say the least. “Firstly, nice design on your helmet,” he finally says. He hopes to sound friendly, because he does think it’s a unique design. Which is confusing, because he had gotten the Impression that Lara didn’t want to _be_ unique. 

“You should get into position,” he goes on. “I know it seems calm at the moment but there might be enemies around the corner, and if you let your defenses down you might not make it out again.”

For a moment Waxer thinks Lara’s just not going to listen to him, but after a loud groan the trooper pushes himself off the wall and gets a bit closer to Waxer. “Fine,” he says. “You can bother someone else now.”

Waxer looks at him from up where he’s sitting on the AT-ST. He blinks. Lara really seems to have woken up on the wrong foot. 

“I’m not trying to bother you. You’re one of our men and I’d like for you to make it.”

“Well, good news,” Lara says. “I’m pretty good at staying alive. It’s my specialty, you might say. I—“

He doesn’t get any further. Before either of them can react there’s a deafening bang as the building behind him goes up in flames. The explosion sends the trooper flying into the ground and the AT-ST stumbles, threatens to fall. Waxer curses and jumps off it, huffing as he lands on his knees in the dirt, and coughs. There’s smoke everywhere, but the helmet-vision leaves him some kind of view. He hears someone sob, looks around to see who else was near the explosion, and—he needs to get out of here before a second one follows. Where’s Lara?

He gets to his feet, shivers despite the heat. Then, he sees the body. 

Lara is moving, but his legs are twisted in the wrong direction and he stares at the sky as If he is far away. There are tears on his face. Waxer curses again as he leans over his brother and pulls him up until he’s lying over Waxer’s shoulder, whispers an apology when Lara groans in Pain. 

“Medic!” he yells, trips, just catches himself from falling. Tries to stand tall. He takes a few steps and then he sees Cody approaching him. “Waxer,” the Commander says, and Waxer coughs again. “I’m okay,” he says. “He was close to the explosion. The others–was anyone else near?”

“Yes, we’re getting them,” Cody says as he’s taking Lara’s (now awfully still) body from him. “But no colonists were in here. The General’s listening to what the Seperatist Commander is planning, seems like this was just supposed to be for shock.”

Waxer looks around and sees a Trooper lying over the remains of an AT-ST, not moving at all. _Just for shock._

“Okay,” Waxer says. “Good. That’s good.” _It’s not good. Vode died._

Skywalker comes into view, leans over a trooper. “We need a medic over here!” he yells. 

The vod beneath him squirms, and Kix runs over, followed by a second medic Waxer doesn’t recognize. 

“Cody!” Skywalker calls out. Cody's head snaps up. “We don’t have time for the planetary scan. Hook R2 up and he’ll locate the bombs.”

Cody straightens his back, nods and sends a last questioning look to Waxer. “Right away, Sir,” he then says. 

Cody lays Lara onto the ground and the second 501st medic leans over him, checking his pulse and then searches for something in his med-kit. Lara groans again, seeming to come back to conscience after having blacked out for a bit. 

The Commander drops down to eye-level with the R2 unit and starts talking to it quietly.

“What happened here?” someone yells behind them, and Waxer looks up to Boil hopping off of his AT-ST. His helmet turns to the Troopers on the ground and then back to Waxer.

“Explosion. Two men down. Skywalker and Tano are off to get to the other explosives and disable them,” Waxer explains. “The droid will locate the bombs. The General keeps the Seperatist in place.”

“Does he need help?”

Cody chuckles darkly from where he’s working with the R2 unit. “I’d say yes, but he’s told us explicitly not to come up there. He’s a jedi, he can deal with a few droids and a Slaver.”

He seems as if he’s more trying to reassure himself than anyone else. Boil nods and seems to check Waxer over again before he turns to the brother lying next to them. 

“He was too close to the explosion. Was already dead when we pulled him out,” Kix says. He sounds tired.

A beeping noise to their right. “General Skywalker, your droid’s transmitting the bomb coordinates now,” Cody says into his comm. 

“ _Copy that, Cody. We’re approaching the first bomb.”_

Cody nods, pats the droid on the head. “Good job, buddy,” he says. 

The colonists were hidden away in the buildings close to the bombs, apparently waiting to be picked up so that they could be sold as Slaves. As soon as Skywalker comms that they’ve defused every bomb and that they’ve freed the people the Seperatist (officer? Slaver? Waxer has no idea) comes running out the tower, stops and curses when every clone in sight turns toward him. He gets out some kind of whip, turns towards a group of clones. Cody is faster than he is. 

Kenobi comes out only a moment after, gasping for air, and blinks at the body lying on the ground. He looks up at Cody with a smile. 

“Well, can’t say he doesn’t deserve it,” the General says. He’s limping, Waxer notes, and judging by the anger pouring off the Commander he has noticed, too. 

When they’re leaving the people of Kiros watch them, cheer and wave, though it’s mostly not directed at the clones. Their amazed gazes are fixated on the Jedi, which Waxer can kind of understand. Still. _They_ did something, too. 

Waxer sees the little girl from before in the crowd, holding her mothers hand, and when she catches him looking at her she smiles and waves hesitantly. Different from Numa, who had swung her hand back and forth in wide motions.

Waxer waves back. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mandoa translations:
> 
> Kih’parjai—No problem; Don’t mention it
> 
> So you may think, “but Meer! This chapter has almost 2k less words than the others, what happened!” And to that I say, do not worry, I have a permit. *I hand you a piece of Paper with nothing but FUCK THIS ARC written on it*
> 
> In short: I hate this arc and I want it to be over and continue with my own thing. The next arc won’t be much better and will give me major brainworms because it’s the bald-i-wan arc and that’s a whole different story. 
> 
> Anyway: as a little token of apology for this rather short chapter I have uploaded the first chapter of a second work in this universe: “The last reason,” a Fox centric story. That I’ll upload right after getting this chapter up. (So if you’re reading this very early for some reason It won’t be there yet!)  
> Take a look at it if you feel like it :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos or a comment if you enjoyed! (I crave the Validation!)  
> Also, come visit me on tumblr if you want! (https://mando-meer.tumblr.com/)


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